UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


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aV 


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RUDIN  :     A   ROMANCE 
A  KING   LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 


THE  WORKS 

OF 

IVAN  TURGENIEFF 

RUDIN:  A  ROMANCE 

A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

PHANTOMS 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN  BY 

ISABEL  F.  HAPGOOD 


PRrS-TED  BY  ARRANGEMENT  WITH 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


WILLEY  BOOK  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


57077 


CoPTHionT,  1903,  BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNERS  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


^\ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RUDIN:  A  Romance 1 

A  KING  LEAR  OF   THE   STEPPES 229 


RUDIN: 
A  ROMANCE 

(1855) 


RUDIN: 

A   ROMANCE 


IT  was  a  calm  summer  morning.  The  sun  al- 
ready stood  quite  high  in  the  heavens,  but  the 
meadows  were  still  glittering  with  dew;  the  re- 
cently awakened  valleys  breathed  forth  perfumed 
freshness,  and  in  the  forest,  still  damp  and  noise- 
less, the  little  early  birds  were  singing  blithely. 
On  the  crest  of  a  sloping  hill,  covered  from  top 
to  bottom  with  rye  which  had  just  burst  into 
bloom,  a  tiny  hamlet  was  visible.  Along  the  nar- 
row countrv  road,  in  the  direction  of  this  hamlet, 
was  walking  a  young  woman,  clad  in  a  white 
cotton  gown,  a  round  straw  hat,  and  with  a  para- 
sol in  her  hand.  A  groom  followed  her  at  a 
distance. 

She  was  walking  in  a  leisurely  way,  and  seemed 
to  be  enjoying  her  stroll.  Hound  about,  over  the 
tall,  waving  rye,  with  a  soft  rustle,  flowed  long 
waves,  shifting  from  a  silvery-green  to  a  red- 
dish hue.  High  aloft,  the  larks  were  carolling 
The  young  woman  was  walking  from  her  own 
village,  large  enougli  to  contain  a  church,  which 


RUDIN 

she  owned,  and  wliicli  was  distant  not  more  than 
a  verst  from  the  hamlet  whither  she  was  directing 
her  way;  her  name  was  Alexandra  Pavlovna 
Li'pin.  She  was  a  widow,  childless  and  fairly 
wealthy,  and  she  lived  with  her  hrother,  retired 
captain  of  cavalry,  Sergyei  Pavlitch  Volyntzeff. 
He  was  not  married,  and  managed  her  property. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  reached  the  hamlet,  halted 
at  the  outermost  cottage,  a  very  aged  and  lowly 
hut,  and  calling  up  her  groom,  she  ordered  him  to 
enter  it  and  inquire  after  the  health  of  the  house- 
wife. He  speedily  returned,  accompanied  by  a 
decrepit  peasant  with  a  white  beard. 

*'  Well,  what  news?  "  inquired  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna. 

"  She  is  still  alive,  .  .  .  .  "  said  the  old  man. 

"May  I  enter?" 

*'  Why  do  you  ask?    Certainly." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  entered  the  cottage.  It 
%vas  cramped,  and  stifling  and  smoky  inside. 
Some  one  was  tossing  about  and  moaning  on  the 
oven-bench.  Alexandra  Pavlovna  gazed  about 
her  and  descried,  in  the  semi-darkness,  the  yellow 
and  wrinkled  head  of  an  old  woman  bound  up  in 
a  checked  kerchief.  Completely  covered,  even 
her  chest,  by  a  heavy  peasant  coat,  she  breathed 
with  difficulty,  feebly  throwing  apart  her  scraggy 
arms. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  stepped  up  to  the  old 
woman  and  touched  her  fingers  to  the  latter's 
brow  ....  it  was  fairly  blazing  with  heat. 

4 


RUDIX 

"How  dost  thou  feel,  Matryona?"  she  in- 
quired, bending  over  the  oven-bench. 

"O-okli!"  moaned  the  old  woman,  as  she 
stared  at  Alexandra  Pavlovna.  "  Badly,  badly, 
mv  own!  ]Mv  hour  of  death  has  arrived,  dear 
little  dove!  " 

"  God  is  merciful,  INIatryona;  perhaps  thou 
wilt  recover.  Hast  thou  taken  the  medicine  which 
I  sent  thee  ?  " 

The  old  woman  moaned  painfully,  but  did  not 
reply.     She  had  not  fully  heard  the  question. 

"  She  took  it,"  said  the  old  man,  who  was  stand- 
ing by  the  door. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  turned  to  him:  "  Is  there 
no  one  with  her  except  thee? "  she  asked. 

"  There  is  a  little  girl, — her  grandchild, — but 
she  is  always  going  oif.  She  cannot  sit  still; 
she  's  such  a  fidgety  creature.  She  's  too  lazy 
even  to  give  her  grandmother  a  drink  of  water. 
And  I  am  old ;  what  can  I  do ! " 

"  Would  it  not  be  well  to  bring  her  to  me — to 
my  hospital?  " 

"  No!  why  to  a  hospital?  she  will  die  anyway. 
She  has  lived  long  enough;  evidently  that  is 
pleasing  to  God.  She  will  never  leave  the  oven- 
bench.  What 's  the  use  of  taking  her  to  a  hos- 
pital ?  As  soon  as  you  try  to  lift  her  up  she  will 
le. 

"  Okh !  "  groaned  the  sick  woman,  "  beautiful 
lady,  don't  desert  my  orphan;  our  master  and 
mistress  are  far  awav,  but  thou — " 

5 


RUDIN 

The  old  woman  fell  silent.  She  had  talked 
beyond  her  strenf>th. 

"  Don't  worry,"  said  Alexandra  Pavlovna; 
"  everything  shall  be  done.  Here,  I  have  brought 
thee  some  tea  and  some  sugar.     Drink  some,  if 

thou  feelest  like  it Of  course,  you  have  a 

samovar?  "  she  added,  glancing  at  the  old  man. 

"  A  samovar  did  you  say?  We  have  no  samo- 
var, but  I  can  get  one." 

"  Then  get  it,  or  I  will  send  my  own.  And  give 
your  granddaughter  orders  not  to  absent  herself. 
Tell  her  that  it  is  a  shame." 

The  old  man  made  no  answer,  but  took  the 
package  of  tea  and  sugar  in  both  hands. 

"  Well,  good-bj^e,  Matryona!  "  said  Alexandra 
Pavlovna.  "  I  will  come  again  to  see  thee,  but 
thou  must  not  get  despondent,  and  thou  must 
take  thy  medicine  regularly " 

The  old  woman  raised  her  hand  and  stretched 
it  toward  Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  Give  me  thy  hand,  my  lady,"  she  whispered. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  did  not  give  her  her  hand, 
but  bent  over  and  kissed  her  on  the  brow. 

"  See  to  it,"  she  said  to  the  old  man  as  she  took 
her  departure,  "  that  you  give  her  the  medicine, 
without  fail,  as  it  is  prescribed.  And  give  her  tea 
to  drink " 

Again  the  old  man  made  no  reply,  and  merely 
bowed. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief 

6 


RUDIN 

when  she  found  herself  in  the  open  air.  She 
opened  her  parasol  and  was  on  the  point  of  set- 
ting out  homeward,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  round 
the  corner  of  the  wretched  cottage,  seated  in  a 
low-hung  racing-drozhky,  drove  a  man  of  thirty, 
clad  in  an  old  overcoat  of  grey  variegated  woollen 
homespun,  with  a  cap  of  the  same.  On  perceiv- 
ing Alexandra  Pavlovna  he  immediately  drew 
up  his  horse  and  tvu-ned  his  face  toward  her. 
Eroad,  devoid  of  rosiness,  with  small,  pale-grey 
eves  and  a  whitish  moustache,  it  was  in  harmony 
with  the  hue  of  his  clothing. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said,  with  a  lazy  smile; 
"'  permit  me  to  inquire  what  you  are  doing  here?  " 

"  I  have  been  visiting  a  sick  woman 

And  whence  come  you,  JNIikhailo  Mikhailitch?  " 

The  man  who  was  named  JNIikhailo  INIikhai- 
litch  looked  her  straight  in  the  eye,  and  laughed 
again. 

"  You  do  well,"  he  went  on,  "  in  visiting  the 
sick ;  only  would  n't  it  be  better  to  take  her  to  the 
hospital?  " 

"  She  is  too  weak;  she  cannot  be  touched." 

"  And  you  do  not  intend  to  abolish  your 
hospital? " 

"AboHsh  it?    Why!" 

"  Oh,  because." 

"What  a  strange  idea!  What  put  that  into 
your  head  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  are  always  consorting  with  ^Ime. 

7 


RUDIN 

T.asunsky,  and,  a])i)airntly,  you  arc  under  her 
inllucnce.  And,  accordino'  to  lier,  hospitals, 
schools — all  that  sort  of  thing — arc  nonsense, 
useless  inventions.  Benevolence  nnist  be  per- 
sonal, culture  ditto;  't  is  all  a  matter  of  soul  .... 
tliat  \s  the  way  she  expresses  herself,  it  appears. 
Whose  tune  is  she  singing,  I  'd  like  to  know?  " 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  biu'st  out  laughing. 

"  Darya  INIikhailovna  is  a  clever  woman;  I  am 
very  fond  of  her,  and  I  respect  her ;  but  she  may 
be  mistaken,  and  I  do  not  believe  every  word  she 
utters." 

"  And  it 's  a  splendid  thing  you  don't,"  re- 
torted ^Mikhailo  :Mikhailitch,  still  omitting  to  de- 
scend from  his  drozhkv;  "because  she  hasn't 
much  faith  in  her  own  words.  But  I  am  very 
glad  to  have  met  you." 

"  Why  so? " 

"  A  pretty  question !  As  if  it  were  not  always 
pleasant  to  meet  you!  To-day  you  are  just  as 
fresh  and  charming  as  this  morning  itself." 

Again  Alexandra  Pavlovna  began  to  laugh. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at? " 

"  How  can  you  ask?  If  you  could  only  see 
with  what  a  languid  and  chilly  mien  you  uttered 
your  compliment!  I  am  surprised  that  you  did 
not  vawn  over  the  last  word." 

"  With  a  chilly  mien!  ....  You  always  want 
fire;  but  fire  is  of  no  use.  It  flares  up,  creates  a 
smoke,  and  dies  out." 

8 


RIJDIN 

"And  it  warms,"  Alexandra  Pavlovna  caught 
him  up. 

"  Yes  .  .  .  and  it  burns." 

"  Well,  what  if  it  does!  There  's  no  harm  in 
that.    Anything  is  better  than  .  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  I  'm  going  to  see  whether  you  will  say 
that  after  you  have  once  been  well  burned," 
^Mikhailo  Mikhailitch  interrupted  her  with  vexa- 
tion, and  slapped  the  reins  on  his  horse's  back. 
"Good-bye!" 

"Mikhailo  :Mikliailitch,  wait!"  cried  Alexan- 
dra Pavlovna.     "  When  are  you  coming  to  see 

usf 

"  To-morrow;  remember  me  to  your  brother." 

And  the  drozhky  rolled  off. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  gazed  after  ^likhailo 
]Mikhailitch. 

"What  a  meal-sack!"  she  said  to  herself. 
And,  in  fact,  bent  double,  covered  with  dust,  his 
cap  on  the  nape  of  his  neck,  with  tufts  of  yellow 
hair  sticking  out  from  under  it,  he  did  resemble 
a  huge  flour-sack. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  quietly  wended  her  way 
homeward.  She  walked  on  witli  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground.  The  trampling  of  a  horse's  hoofs  close 
by  made  her  })ause  and  raise  her  liead.  Her 
brother  was  coming  toward  her  on  horseback; 
alongside  him  walked  a  young  man  of  sliort  stat- 
ure in  a  lightweight  coat  thrown  open  on  the 
breast,  a  light  tie,  and  a  light  grey  hat,  with  a 

9 


RtJDIN 

slender  cane  in  his  hand.  He  had  ab'cady  long" 
been  smiling  at  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  although 
he  saw  that  she  was  walking  along  buried  in 
thought,  taking  no  notice  of  anything,  and  as 
soon  as  she  halted  he  went  up  to  her  and  joyfully, 
almost  tenderly,  exclaimed: 

"  Good  morning,  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  good 
morning!  " 

"Ah!  Konstantin  Diomiditch,  good  morn- 
ing! "  she  replied.  "  You  are  coming  from 
Darya  JNIikhailovna's?  " 

"  Exactly  so,  ma'am,  exactlj'^  so,  ma'am,"  re- 
sponded the  young  man,  with  a  beaming  covm- 
tenance ;  "  from  Darya  Mikhailovna's.  Darya 
JNIikhailovna  has  sent  me  to  you,  ma'am;  I  pre- 
ferred to  go  on  foot It  is  such  a  magnifi- 
cent morning,  and  the  distance  is  only  four  versts. 
I  arrive — you  are  not  at  home,  ma'am.  Your 
brother  tells  me  that  you  have  walked  to  Semyo- 
novko,  and  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  fields,  so  I 
walked  along  with  him,  ma'am,  to  meet  you. 
Yes,  ma'am.    How  pleasant  it  is!  " 

The  young  man  spoke  Russian  with  purity  and 
correctness,  but  with  a  foreign  accent,  although 
it  was  difficult  to  determine  with  precisely  what 
accent.  There  was  something  Asiatic  about  his 
features.  A  long  nose  with  a  hump,  large  mo- 
tionless, goggle-eyes,  thick  red  lips,  a  retreating 
brow,  hair  black  as  pitch, — all  these  things  in  him 
betokened   an   Oriental   origin;   but   the   young 

10 


RUDIN 

man's  surname  was  Pandalevsky,  and  he  called 
Odessa  his  native  place,  although  he  had  been 
reared  somewhere  in  White  Russia  at  the  expense 
of  a  wealthy  and  benevolent  widow.  Another 
widow  had  obtained  a  position  for  him  in  the  gov- 
ernment service.  As  a  rule,  middle-aged  ladies 
were  very  fond  of  playing  the  part  of  protector 
to  Konstantin  Diomiditch ;  he  understood  how  to 
render  himself  agreeable  to  them,  to  insinuate 
himself  into  their  favour.  He  was  at  present  liv- 
ing in  the  house  of  the  wealthy  Darya  JNIikhai- 
lovna  Lasunsky,  in  the  capacity  of  an  adopted 
son,  or  a  visitor.  He  was  very  endearing  in  his 
manners,  very  obliging;  susceptible  and  secretly 
sensual,  he  possessed  an  agreeable  voice,  played 
quite  well  on  the  piano,  and  had  a  habit,  when 
he  was  talking  with  any  one,  of  fairly  riveting 
his  eyes  on  him.  He  dressed  with  great  neatness, 
and  wore  his  clothing  an  extremely  long  time, 
shaved  his  broad  chin  with  care,  and  made  every 
hair  on  his  head  lie  in  its  appointed  place. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  listened  to  his  speech  to 
the  very  end,  then  turned  to  her  brother. 

"  I  keep  meeting  people  to-day:  just  now  I 
had  a  chat  with  Lezhnyoff ." 

"Ah!  with  him?  Was  he  on  his  way  some- 
where? " 

"  Yes;  and  just  imagine,  in  a  racing-drozhky, 
in  some  sort  of  a  Hnen  bag,  all  covered  with  dust. 
What  an  eccentric  fellow  he  is!  " 

11 


R0DIN 

"  Yes,  possibly;  only  he  's  a  splendid  man." 

"  Wlio  is  tliat — Mr.  Lezhnyoff  ?  "  inquired 
Pandalevsky,  as  tliough  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  ]\Iikliailo  Mikhailiteli  Lezhnyoff,"  re- 
plied A'olynt/elf.  "  But  farewell,  sister;  it  is 
time  for  me  to  ride  to  the  fields;  they  are  sowing 
thv  buckwheat.  Mr.  Pandalevskv  will  escort 
thee  home." 

And  Yolyntzeff  started  his  horse  into  a  trot. 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure!"  exclaimed 
Konstantin  Diomiditch,  and  offered  Alexandra 
Pavlovna  his  arm. 

She  gave  him  hers,  and  both  turned  into  the 
road  which  led  to  her  home-farm. 

Apparently  it  afforded  Konstantin  Diomiditch 
great  satisfaction  to  walk  arm  in  arm  with  Alex- 
andra Pavlovna.  He  stalked  along  with  minc- 
ing steps,  smiled,  and  his  Oriental  eyes  even  be- 
came suffused  with  moisture,  which,  however, 
not  infrequently  M^as  the  case  with  him;  it  cost 
Konstantin  Diomiditch  no  effort  whatever  to  be 
overcome  with  emotion  and  to  shed  tears.  And 
who  would  not  have  found  it  pleasant  to  walk 
arm  in  arm  with  a  pretty,  young,  and  graceful 
woman?  Of  Alexandra  Pavlovna  the  whole  of 
....  Government  unanimously  said  that  she 
was  charming;  and  ....  Government  was  not 
mistaken.  Her  straight  little  nose  alone,  with  its 
almost  imperceptibly  tilted  tip,  was  enough  to 

12 


RUDIN 

drive  anv  mortal  out  of  his  senses,  not  to  mention 
her  velvety-brown  eyes,  her  ruddy-golden  hair, 
the  dimples  in  her  plump  cheeks,  and  other 
beauties.  But  the  best  thing  of  all  about  her  was 
the  expression  of  her  lovely  face :  trustful,  good- 
natured,  and  gentle,  it  touched  and  attracted. 
Alexandra  Pavlovna's  glance  and  laugh  were 
those  of  a  child;  the  ladies  thought  her  rather 

simple-minded Could    anything    further 

be  desired? 

"  Darya  INIikhailovna  sent  you  to  me,  you 
said?  "  she  asked  Pandalevsky. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  she  sent  me,  ma'am,"  he  replied, 
pronouncing  the  letter  s  like  an  English  tli} 
"  They  desired  me  and  commanded  me,  without 
fail,  urgently  to  request  you  to  do  them  the  hon- 
our to  dine  with  them  to-day.  .  .  .  They"  (when 
Pandalevsky  spoke  of  a  third  person,  especially 
of  a  lady,  he  strictly  kept  to  the  plural  number)  — 
"  they  are  expecting  a  new  guest  with  whom  they 
wish,  without  fail,  to  make  you  acquainted." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  A  certain  MufFel,  a  baron,  a  gentleman  of 
the  Bedchamber  from  Petersburg.  Darya  Mi- 
khaflovna  made  his  acquaintance  not  long  ago  at 
Prince  Giirin's,  and  expresses  herself  with  re- 

^  This  /f  is  a  respectful  addition  at  the  end  of  a  word,  representingf 
muhiryvyii  (Madam),  like  tlie  abbreviated  "ma'am  ":  or,  in  the  case 
of  address  to  men,  of  gamtdnr,  sir.  Pandal<'vsky  also  nses  the  third 
person  phiral  of  the  verbs  and  pronouns,  with  the  same  object:  that 
of  showing  ingratiating?  respect. — Thanslatoh. 

1.3 


KUDIjN 

oarcl  to  him  in  the  most  laudatory  terms,  as  an 
amiahlc  and  cultured  young  man.  The  Baron 
also  occupies  himself  with  literature,  or,  to  speak 
more  accurately  ....  akh,  what  a  charming" 
hutterlly!  permit  me  to  call  your  attention  to  it 
....  to  speak  more  accurately,  with  political 
economy.  He  has  written  an  article  about  some 
very  interesting  question,  and  he  wishes  to  submit 
it  to  the  judgment  of  Darya  INIikhailovna." 
"  An  article  on  political  economy?  " 
*'  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  language, 
ma'am,  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  from  the  point  of 
^iew  of  the  language,  ma'am.  I  think  you  are 
aware  that  Darya  Mikhailovna  is  an  expert  in 
that  direction,  ma'am.  Zhukovsky  was  wont  to 
take  counsel  with  her,  and  my  benefactor  who 
resides  in  Odessa,  the  venerable  Roksolan  Me- 
diarovitch  Ksandryka,  all-worthy  in  good  deeds 
....  surely,  the  name  of  that  person  is  known 
to  vou?  " 

"  I  have  never  so  much  as  heard  it." 
"  You  have  not  heard  of  such  a  man?  Amaz- 
ing! What  I  set  out  to  say  was,  that  Roksolan 
^Slediarovitch  has  always  entertained  a  very  high 
opinion  of  Darya  Mikhailovna's  information 
concerning  the  Russian  language." 

"  But   is   not   that   Baron   a   jjedant? "   asked 
Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  Not  in  the  least,  ma'am.     Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna declares  that,  on  the  contrary,  the  man  of 

14 


RUDIN 

the  world  is  immediately  perceptible  in  him.  He 
talked  about  Beethoven  with  such  eloquence  that 

even  the  old  Prince  experienced  raptures 

I  should  have  liked  to  hear  it,  I  confess ;  for  that 
is  in  my  line.  Permit  me  to  offer  you  this  beau- 
tiful wild  flower." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  took  the  flower,  and  after 
proceeding    a    few    paces    dropped    it    in    the 

road Her  house  was  distant  a  couple  of 

Iiundred  paces,  not  more.  Recently  erected  and 
whitewashed,  it  peeped  with  an  air  of  welcome 
from  amid  the  dense  verdure  of  ancient  lindens 
and  maples  with  its  broad,  bright  windows. 

"  And  so,  ma'am,  what  do  you  bid  me  report 
to  Darya  Mikhaflovna,"  began  Pandalevsky, 
slightly  nettled  at  the  fate  meted  out  to  his 
flower;  "will  you  come  to  dinner?  She  invites 
you  and  your  brother." 

"  Yes,  we  will  certainly  come.  And  how  is 
Natasha?  " 

"  Natalya  Alexyeevna,  thank  God,  is  well, 
ma'am.  But  we  have  already  passed  the  turn  to 
Darya  Mikhailovna's  estate.  Allow  me  to  make 
my  adieux." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  stopped. — "  And  will 
you  not  come  in?"  she  asked,  in  an  undecided 
tone. 

"  I  should  be  lieartily  glad,  ma'am,  to  do  so, 
but  I  am  afraid  of  being  late.  13arya  Mikliai- 
lovna  wishes  to  hear  a  new  Etude  by  Tlialberg; 

15 


KUDIN 

so  I  must  prepare  myself  and  practise  it.  More^ 
over,  1  must  confess  1  have  some  doubts  as  to 
wliether  my  conversation  would  afford  you  any 
pleasiu'e." 

"Yes,   indeed  ....  why  not?"  .... 

Pandalevsky  sighed,  and  dropped  his  eyes  ex- 
pressively. 

"  Farewell  for  the  present,  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna!  "  he  said,  after  a  brief  pause,  bowed,  and 
retreated  a  pace. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  turned  and  went  home. 

Konstantin  Diomiditch  also  wended  his  way 
homeward.  All  sweetness  instantly  vanished 
from  his  countenance;  a  self-confident,  almost 
harsh  expression  made  its  appearance  thereon. 
Even  the  gait  of  Konstantin  Diomiditch  under- 
went a  change;  he  now  took  longer  strides,  and 
trod  more  heavily.  Pie  had  traversed  a  couple  of 
versts,  flourishing  his  cane  in  a  free-and-easy 
manner,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  again  began 
to  smirk ;  he  had  caught  sight,  by  the  roadside,  of 
a  young,  tolerably  comely  peasant  lass,  who  was 
driving  the  calves  out  of  the  oats.  Konstantin 
Diomiditch,  as  warily  as  a  cat,  approached  the 
girl  and  entered  into  conversation  with  her.  At 
first  she  made  no  answer,  then  flushed  up  and 
began  to  laugh,  and  at  last  covered  her  lips  with 
her  sleeve,  turned  away,  and  said: 

"  Go  along,  master,  really  .  .  .  ." 


RUDIN 

Konstantin  Diomiditch  menaced  her  with  his 
finger  and  ordered  her  to  bring  him  some  corn- 
flowers. 

"  What  dost  thou  want  with  corn-flowers?  art 
thou  going  to  weave  wreaths?  "  retorted  the  girl; 
"  come  now,  go  along,  I  mean  it  .  .  .  ." 

"  Hearken,  my  amiable  little  beauty,"  began 
Konstantin  Diomiditch  .... 

"  Come  now,  be  ofl*  with  you,"  the  girl  inter- 
rupted him;  "yonder  come  the  young  gentle- 
men." 

Konstantin  Diomiditch  glanced  round.  In 
fact,  Vanya  and  Petya,  the  sons  of  Darya  Mi- 
khailovna,  were  running  along  the  road;  they 
were  followed  by  their  teacher,  Basistoff,  a 
young  man  twentj^-two  years  of  age,  who  had 
only  just  finished  his  studies.  Basistoff*  was  a 
well-grown  young  fellow,  with  a  foolish  face,  a 
large  nose,  huge  teeth,  and  pig's  eyes,  homely 
and  awkward,  but  kind,  honourable  and  upright. 
He  was  carelessly  dressed,  wore  his  hair  long, — 
not  out  of  foppishness,  but  out  of  laziness, — was 
fond  of  eating,  fond  of  sleeping,  but  also  fond  of 
a  good  book,  a  heated  argument,  and  hated  Pan- 
(lalevsky  with  all  his  soul. 

Diirya  IVIikhaflovna's  children  adored  Basis- 
toff, and  also  feared  him  not  a  little;  he  was  on 
i'ltiniatc  terms  with  all  the  other  members  of  the 
Iiouscbold,  which  did  not  particularly  please  the 

17 


RUDIN 

mistress  of  the  house,  descant  as  she  might  on  the 
tlienie  tliat  no  such  thing  as  prejudices  existed 
for  her. 

"Good  morning,  my  dears!"  began  Kon- 
stantin  Dioniiditch;  "  how  early  you  have  set  out 
for  your  walk  to-day!  But  I,"  he  added,  address- 
ing Basistoff,  "  went  out  long  ago;  my  passion  is 
to  enjoy  nature." 

"  We  saw  how  you  were  enjoying  nature," 
muttered  Basistoff. 

"  You  are  a  materialist;  God  only  knows  what 
you  were  thinking  just  now.     I  know  you! " 

Pandalevsky,  when  he  conversed  with  Basis- 
toff or  persons  like  him,  became  somewhat  irri- 
tated, and  pronounced  the  letter  s  quite  clearly, 
even  with  a  slight  hiss. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  were  inquir- 
ing your  way  of  that  girl,  do  you? "  remarked 
Basistoff,  rolling  his  eyes  to  right  and  left. 

He  felt  that  Pandalevsky  was  staring  him 
straight  in  the  face,  and  this  was  extremely  dis- 
agreeable to  him. 

"  I  repeat,  you  are  a  materialist,  and  nothing 
else.  You  insist  on  beholding  only  the  prosaic 
side  in  everything.  ..." 

"Children!"  Basistoff  suddenly  issued  his 
command,  "  do  you  see  the  silver  willow  yonder 
in  the  meadow ;  let 's  see  which  of  you  will 
run  to  it  the  more  quickly  ....  one,  two 
three!" 

18 


RUDIX 

And  the  boys  set  off,  at  the  top  of  their  speed, 
for  the  willow-tree.     BasistofF  flew  after  them. 

"Peasant!"    thought    Pandalevsky;    "he    is 

spoiling    those    horrid    boys A    regular 

peasant! " 

And,  casting  a  glance  of  satisfaction  over  his 
own  neat  and  elegant  little  figure,  Konstantin 
Diomiditch  tapped  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  with  his 
wide-spread  fingers  a  couple  of  times,  shook  his 
collar,  and  went  his  way.  On  reaching  his  own 
room  he  donned  an  old  dressing-gown,  and  with 
anxious  countenance  seated  himself  at  the  piano. 


II 

The  house  of  Darya  IMikliailovna  Lasiinsky  was 
considered  to  be  almost  the  leading  one  in  the 
Government  of  ...  .  A  vast  stone  structure, 
erected  after  drawings  by  Rastrelli  in  the  taste 
of  the  past  century,  it  rose  majestically  on  the 
crest  of  a  hill,  at  whose  foot  flowed  one  of  the 
chief  rivers  of  central  Russia.  Darja  Mikhai- 
lovna  herself  was  a  distinguished  and  wealthy 
noblewoman,  the  widow  of  a  privy  councillor. 
Althouoh  Pandalevsky  was  wont  to  narrate  of 
her  that  she  knew  all  Europe,  and  that  Europe 
also  knew  her,  yet  Europe  knew  very  little 
about  her.  Even  in  Petersburg  she  did  not  play 
a  prominent  part;  on  the  other  hand,  in  Moscow 
every  one  knew  her  and  frequented  her  house. 
She  belonged  to  the  highest  society,  and  bore  the 
reputation  of  being  a  rather  peculiar  woman,  not 
particularly  amiable,  but  extremely  clever.  In 
her  youth  she  had  been  very  handsome.  Poets 
had  written  verses  to  her,  the  young  men  had 
fallen  in  love  with  her,  men  of  importance  had 
dangled  in  her  train.  But  since  that  time  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  years  had  elapsed,  and  not  a  trace 
of  her  former  charms  remained.  "  Is  it  possible," 
every  one  who  beheld  her  only  for  the  first  time 

20 


RUDIN 

involuntarily  asked  himself — "  is  it  possible  that 
that  gaunt,  sallow,  sharp-nosed,  though  not  yet 
elderly  woman  ever  was  a  beauty?  Can  she  be  the 
one  about  whom  the  lyres  tinkled?  "  .  .  .  .  And 
every  one  was  amazed  within  himself  at  the  mu- 
tability of  all  things  earthly.  Pandalevsky,  it  is 
true,  thought  that  Darya  ]Mikhailovna's  magnifi- 
cent eyes  had  been  marvellously  well  preserved; 
but  then,  that  same  Pandalevsky  asserted  that 
all  Europe  knew  her. 

Darya  ]\likhailovna  came  every  summer  to  her 
country  place  with  her  children  (she  had  only 
three:  a  daughter,  Natalya,  aged  seventeen,  and 
two  sons,  respectively  ten  and  nine  years  of  age) 
and  kept  open  house — that  is  to  sa}^  she  received 
men  visitors,  especially  bachelors;  country  ladies 
she  could  not  endure.  In  consequence,  she  caught 
it  from  those  same  ladies.  Darya  JNIikhailovna, 
according  to  them,  was  both  proud  and  immoral, 
and  a  frightful  tyrant;  but  the  principal  thing 
was — she  permitted  herself  such  freedom  of 
speech  that  it  was  downright  shocking.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Darya  JNIikhailovna  was  not  fond 
of  putting  any  restraint  on  herself  in  the  country, 
and  in  the  free  simplicity  of  her  demeanour  there 
was  perceptible  a  slight  tinge  of  the  scorn  of  the 
fashionable  dame  from  the  capital  toward  the 
decidedly  uncultured  and  petty  persons  who  sur- 
rounded her She  behaved  to  her  town  ac- 
quaintances, also,  in  a  very  free-and-easy,  even 

?1 


RUDIX 

scoffing  manner,  but  there  was  not  a  trace  of 
scorn. 

By  the  way,  reader,  have  you  noticed  that  a 
person  who  is  unusually  absent-minded  in  the 
society  of  his  inferiors  never  is  absent-minded 
with  persons  of  a  higher  standing?  Why  is  this? 
However,  sucli  questions  lead  to  nothing. 

When  Konstantin  Diomiditch,  having  at  last 
learned  the  Thalberg  Etude  by  heart,  descended 
from  his  clean  and  cheerfid  little  chamber  to  the 
drawing-room,  he  found  the  entire  domestic  cir- 
cle already  assembled  there.  The  salon  had  al- 
ready begun.  The  mistress  of  the  house  had  set- 
tled herself  on  a  broad  coucli,  with  her  feet  tucked 
up  under  her,  and  was  twirling  a  new  French 
pamphlet  in  her  hands ;  by  the  window,  over  their 
embroidery-frames,  sat,  on  one  side,  the  daughter 
of  Darya  JNIikhailovna,  and,  on  the  other.  Mile. 
Boncourt,  the  governess,  a  dried-up  old  spinster, 
sixty  years  of  age,  with  scratch-wig  of  black 
hair  under  a  motley-hued  cap,  and  cotton-wool 
in  her  ears;  in  the  corner  near  the  door  BasistofF 
had  taken  up  his  post,  and  was  reading  a  news- 
paper; beside  him,  Vanya  and  Petya  were  play- 
ing at  draughts;  and  leaning  against  the  stove, 
with  his  arms  folded  behind  his  back,  stood  a 
gentleman  short  of  stature,  with  rumpled  grey 
hair,  a  swarthy  face,  and  shifty  little  black  eyes 
— a  certain  Afrikan  Semyonitch  Pigasoff. 

A  strange  man  was  this  ISIr.  PigasoiF.  Em- 
'^  22 


RUDIN 

bittered  toward  ever\i:hing  and  everybody,  es- 
pecially toward  women,  he  scolded  from  morn- 
ing until  night,  sometimes  very  pertinently, 
sometimes  quite  stupidly,  but  always  with 
enjoyment.  His  irritation  went  to  the  point  of 
childishness;  his  laugh, the  sound  of  his  voice,  his 
whole  being,  seemed  permeated  with  gall.  Darya 
^Nlikhailovna  gladly  welcomed  Pigasoif ;  he  di- 
verted her  with  his  sallies.  They  really  were 
rather  amusing.  It  was  a  passion  with  him  to 
exaggerate  eveiy thing.  For  example:  no  mat- 
ter what  calamity  was  mentioned  in  his  presence, 
—whether  he  was  told  that  a  village  had  been 
set  on  fire  by  the  lightning,  or  that  a  peasant  had 
chopped  his  hand  off  with  an  axe, — on  each  oc- 
casion he  inquired  with  concentrated  exaspera- 
tion, "  And  what  is  her  name?  " — that  is  to  say, 
what  was  the  name  of  the  woman  who  was  the 
origin  of  the  catastrophe;  because,  according  to 
his  conviction,  a  woman  is  the  cause  of  every  mis- 
fortune, and  all  that  is  necessary  is  to  investigate 
the  matter  thoroughh'.  One  day  he  flung  him- 
self on  his  knees  before  a  lady  with  whom  he  was 
barely  acquainted  and  who  was  pressing  her  hos- 
pitality upon  him,  and  began  tearfully,  but  with 
fury  depicted  on  his  countenance,  to  entreat  her 
to  spare  him,  that  lie  was  guilty  of  no  offence 
toward  her,  and  never  would  be.  On  one  occa- 
sion a  horse  ran  away  down  hill  witli  one  of 
Darva  Mikhaflovna's  laundresses,  hurled  her  into 

23 


RUDIN 

a  ditch,  and  came  near  killin<y  her.  From  that 
dav  forth  Piiiiisofi'  never  mentioned  that  horse 
otherwise  tlian  as  "  the  good,  good  httle  horse," 
and  considered  the  hill  and  the  ditch  as  particn- 
larly  picturesque  localities.  Pigasoff'  had  not 
heen  lucky  in  life,  and  he  had  assumed  this  whim. 
He  had  sprung  from  poor  parents.  His  father 
had  discharged  divers  petty  duties,  hardly  knew 
how  to  read  and  write,  and  took  no  heed  for  the 
education  of  his  son ;  he  fed  and  clothed  him,  and 
that  was  all.  His  mother  had  spoiled  him,  but 
had  died  early.  Pigasoif  had  educated  himself, 
entered  himself  in  the  school  of  the  district,  then 
in  the  gymnasium,  had  taught  himself  French, 
German,  and  even  Latin,  and,  on  leaving  the 
gymnasium  with  an  excellent  certificate,  had  be- 
taken himself  to  Dorpat,  where  he  had  waged  an 
incessant  struggle  with  want,  but  had  gone 
through  the  three  years'  course  to  the  end. 
Pigasoff's  abilities  were  not  above  the  or- 
dinary; he  had  distinguished  himself  by  his 
patience  and  perseverance,  but  that  which  was 
especially  strong  in  him  was  his  sense  of  am- 
bition, the  desire  to  get  into  good  society,  not 
to  get  left  behind,  in  despite  of  fate.  Hence 
he  had  studied  diligently,  and  had  entered 
the  University  of  Dorpat  out  of  ambition.  His 
poverty  enraged  him,  and  developed  in  him  ob- 
sen-ation  and  cunning.  He  expressed  himself  in 
a  way  peculiar  to  himself;  from  his  youth  up 

24 


RUDIN 

he  had  made  his  own  a  special  sort  of  bitter  and 
irritable  eloquence.     His  thoughts  did  not  rise 
above  the  general  level;  but  he  spoke  in  such  a 
way  that  he  might  have  appeared  to  be  not  only 
a  clever,  but  even  a  very  clever  man.    On  receiv- 
ing the  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts  Pigasoff  de- 
cided to  devote  himself  to  the  profession  of  teach- 
ing ;  he  comprehended  that,  on  any  other  road,  he 
could  not,  in  any  possible  manner,  overtake  his 
comrades    (he  had  endeavoured  to  select  them 
from  the  highest  circles,  and  had  understood  how 
to  curry   favour  with   them;   he   even   flattered 
them,  though  he  grumbled  all  the  while) .   But  at 
this  point, to  speak  plainly,  his  material  gave  out. 
A  self-taught  man,  not  out  of  love  for  learning, 
Pigasoff,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  knew  too  little. 
He  broke  down  grievously  in  the  disputation, 
while  another  student,  who  lived  in  the  same  room 
with  him,  and  at  whom  he  had  constantly  jeered, 
a  very  shallow-brained  man,  but  one  who  had  re- 
ceived  a  regular  and  substantial  education,  won 
a  complete  triumph.    This  failure  drove  Pigasoff 
into  a  fury;  he  flung  all  his  text-books  and  note- 
books into  the  fire,  and  entered  the  government 
service.     At  first  matters  did  not  go  ba(]ly;  he 
was  a  fairly  good  official,  not  very  active,  but, 
on  the  otlier  liand,  extremely  self-confident  and 
dashing;  but  he  wanted  to  become  a  person  of 
imi)ortance  at  one  bound.     He  got  entangled, 
stumbled,   and   was  compelled  to  resign.     For 

25 


KUDIN 

three  years  he  kept  quiet  in  a  village  which  he 
had  acquired,  and  suddenly  married  a  wealthy, 
iialt'-educated  woman  who  owned  landed  prop- 
erty, and  whom  he  had  caught  with  the  bait  of 
his  free  and  easy,  scoffing  manners.  But  Piga- 
soff' s  disposition  had  become  too  irritable  and 
acidulated;  family  life  weighed  heavily  on  him. 
His  wife,  after  living  with  him  for  several  years, 
went  off  in  secret  to  Moscow,  and  sold  her  estate 
to  some  clever  speculator,  just  as  PigasofF  had 
built  a  farm-house  on  it.  Shaken  to  the  very 
foundation  by  this  last  blow,  PigasofF  entered 
into  a  law-suit  with  his  wife,  but  gained  nothing 
thereby.  He  was  living  out  his  life  alone; 
roamed  about  among  the  neighbours,  whom  he 
reviled  behind  their  backs  and  even  to  their  faces, 
and  who  received  him  with  a  certain  constrained 
half -laugh,  although  he  did  not  inspire  them  with 
any  serious  alarm ;  and  he  never  took  a  book  into 
his  hand.  He  owned  about  one  hundred  souls; 
his  peasants  were  not  in  distress. 

"Ah!  Constantin! "  said  Darya  Mikhailovna, 
as  soon  as  Pandalevsky  entered  the  drawing- 
room;  "  will  Alexandrine  come?  " 

"Alexandra  Pavlovna  bade  me  thank  you,  and 
she  will  deem  it  a  particular  pleasure  to  do  so," 
replied  Konstantin  Diomiditch,  bowing  gra- 
ciously on  all  sides,  and  touching  his  beautifully 
arranged  hair  with  his  plump  but  white  little 
hand. 

26 


RUDIX 

"  And  will  VolyntzefF  come,  too?  " 
Yes,  ma  am. 

"  And  so,  Afrikan  Semyonitch,"  went  on 
Darya  ^likhailovna,  turning  to  Pigasoff ,  "  in 
your  opinion,  all  young  ladies  are  unnatural?" 

Pigasoff's  lips  curled  on  one  side,  and  he  ner- 
vously twitched  his  elbow. 

"  I  say,"  he  began  in  a  deliberate  voice — he 
always  spoke  slowly  and  distinctly,  even  in  a  vio- 
lent fit  of  anger — "  I  say  that  young  ladies  in 
general — as  to  present  company,  of  course,  I 
hold  my  peace.  ..." 

"  But  that  does  not  prevent  your  thinking  of 
them,"  interrupted  Darya  ]Mikhailovna. 

"  I  hold  my  peace  concerning  them,"  repeated 
Pigasoff.  "  All  young  ladies  in  general  are  un- 
natural in  the  highest  degree — unnatural  in  the 
expression  of  their  feelings.  If  a  young  lady, 
for  instance,  is  frightened  or  delighted  or 
grieved  at  anything,  she  will  infallibly,  in  the 
first  place,  communicate  to  her  body  some  sort 
of  elegant  curve,  like  this"  (and  Pigasoff  bent 
his  form  and  spread  out  his  hands  in  the  most 
hideous  manner),  "and  then  she  will  shriek, 
'  Akli ! '  or  she  will  fall  to  laughing  or  weeping. 
But  I  once  succeeded  "  (here  Pigasoff  smiled  in 
a  self-satisfied  way)  "  in  getting  a  genuine,  un- 
feigned expression  of  sentiment  out  of  one  re- 
markablv  unnatural  voung  lady." 

"  How  did  vou  do  it?  " 

27 


RUDIN 

Pigiisoff' s  eyes  flashed. 

"  1  liit  lier  in  the  side  with  an  aspen  stake,  from 
hcliind.  She  fairly  veiled,  and  1  said:  '  Bravo! 
bravo!  There,  that  was  the  voice  of  nature,  that 
was  a  natural  shriek.  Do  you  always  act  in  that 
way  henceforth! 

Every  one  in  the  room  burst  out  laughing. 

"  What  nonsense  you  do  talk,  Afrikan  Sem- 
yonitch!"  exclaimed  Darya  Mikhailovna.  "As 
if  I  would  believe  that  you  would  strike  a  girl 
in  the  side  with  a  stake! " 

"  By  heaven,  it  was  with  a  stake — with  a  very 
big  stake,  like  those  which  are  used  for  the  de- 
fence of  a  fortress!  " 

"  Mais  cest  une  horreur  ce  que  vous  dites  la 
monsieur/'  cried  Mile.  Boncourt,  as  she  gazed 
sternly  at  the  children,  who  were  convulsed  with 
laughter. 

"  But  do  not  believe  him,"  said  Darya  Mi- 
kliailovna;  "  do  not  you  know  him?  " 

But  it  was  a  long  time  before  the  indignant 
Frenchwoman  could  regain  her  composure,  and 
she  kept  on  muttering  something  to  herself. 

"  You  need  not  believe  me,"  continued  Piga- 
soff  in  an  indifferent  voice;  "  but  I  affirm  that  I 
have  told  the  actual  truth.  Who  should  know 
it,  if  not  I?  After  this,  I  suppose  you  will  not 
believe,  either,  that  our  neighbour,  Mme.  Tche- 
puzoif,     Elena     Antonovna,     herself — observe^ 

28 


RUDIX 

herself — told    me    how    she    tortured    her    own 
nephew?  " 

"  That  's  another  invention  of  yours  1  " 
"  Permit  me,  permit  me!  Listen,  and  judge 
for  yourselves.  Observe  that  I  have  no  desire  to 
cahmmiate  her;  I  am  even  fond  of  her — as  fond 
as  one  can  be  of  a  woman;  in  her  whole  house 
she  has  not  a  single  book,  except  an  almanac, 
and  she  cannot  read  in  any  other  way  than  aloud 
- — she  goes  into  a  perspiration  with  the  exertion, 
and    complains    afterward    that    her    eyes   have 

swelled  out  in  lumjjs In  short,  she  is  a  fine 

woman,  and  has  plump  maids.     Why  should  I 
calumniate  her?  " 

"  Well,"  remarked  Darya  ^likhailovna,  "  Af- 
rikan  Semvonitch  lias  mounted  his  hobby  and  he 
will  not  dismount  from  it  until  evening." 

"  My  hobby!  ....  But  women  have  three 
hobbies,  from  which  they  never  dismount — unless 
they  are  taken  off." 

"  And  what  are  those  three  hobbies?  " 
"  Reproaches,  hints,  and  rebukes." 
"  Do  you  know,  Afrikan  Semyonitch,"  began 
Darya  Mikhailovna,  "  it  is  not  for  nothing  that 
you  are  so  embittered  against  women.     Some  wo- 
man or  other  must  have.  ..." 

"  Offended  mc,  you  mean  to  say?  "  PigasofF 
interrupted  ber. 

Darya    Mikhailovna    became    somewhat    con- 

29 


RUDIN 

fused;  she  recalled  Pigasoff's  unhappy  mar- 
riage, ....  and  merely  nodded  her  head. 

"  One  woman  did,  in  fact,  oifend  me,"  re- 
marked Pigiisoff ;  "  although  she  was  kind,  very 
kind.  ..." 

"Who  was  she?" 

"  My  mother,"  ejaculated  Pigasoff ,  dropping 

his  voice. 

*'  Your  mother?  In  what  way  could  she  offend 

you? 

"  By  giving  me  birth.  ..." 

Darya  Mikhailovna  contracted  her  brows  in 
a  frown. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  began,  "  that  your  con- 
versation is  taking  a  melancholy  turn Con- 

stantin,  play  us  Thalberg's  new  Etude.  Per- 
chance the  sounds  of  music  will  tame  Afrikan 

Semyonitch For  Orpheus  tamed  the  wild 

beasts." 

Konstantin  Diomiditch  seated  himself  at  the 
piano,  and  played  the  Etude  in  a  very  satisfac- 
tory manner.  At  first  Natalya  Alexyeevna  lis- 
tened with  attention,  then  betook  herself  again  to 
her  work. 

"  Merci,  cest  charmant,"  said  Darya  INIikhai- 
lovna ;  "  I  love  Thalberg.  //  est  si  distingue. 
What  have  you  been  thinking  about,  Afrikan 
Semyonitch? " 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  began  Pigasoff 
slowlv,  "that  there  are  three  classes  of  egoists: 
the  egoists  who  enjoy  life  themselves  and  let 

an 


RUDIX 

others  live  also;  the  egoists  who  enjoy  life  them- 
selves and  do  not  let  others  live  also ;  and,  lastly, 
the  egoists  who  do  not  live  themselves  nor  let 

others  live Women,  for  the  most  part, 

belong  to  the  third  class." 

"How  amiable  of  j^ou!  There  is  only  one 
thing  which  surprises  me,  Afrikan  Semyonitch, 
and  that  is  the  self-confidence  of  your  verdicts; 
just  as  though  you  could  never  make  a  mistake." 

"  Who  says  so!  I  make  mistakes  also;  a  man, 
also,  may  err.  But  do  you  know  what  the  differ- 
ence is  between  an  error  on  the  part  of  one  of  us 
men  and  the  error  of  a  woman?  You  do  not 
know?  It  is  this:  a  man  may,  for  instance,  say 
that  twice  two  does  not  make  four,  but  five  or 
three  and  a  half ;  but  a  woman  will  say  that  twice 
two  makes  a  stearine  candle." 

"  It  strikes  me  that  I  have  already  heard  that 

remark  from  you But  allow  me  to  inquire 

what  connection  has  your  thought  about  the  three 
sorts  of  egoists  with  the  music  which  you  have 
just  been  Hstening  to?" 

"  None  whatever,  and  I  was  not  listening  to 
the  music." 

"  Well,  thou,  my  good  fellow,  art  incorrigible. 
I  see,  one  may  as  well  drop  it,"  retorted  Darya 
Mikhailovna,  slightly  distorting  (rriboyedoff' s 
verse.  "  And  what  do  you  love,  if  music  does  not 
please  you?     Literature,  pray?" 

"  I  love  literature,  only  not  that  of  the  present 
day." 

SI 


KUUIN 

"Why  not?" 

"  This  is  why.  Not  lonp^  a^o  I  was  crossing 
the  Okii  on  a  ferry-hoat  witli  some  g-entlenian  or 
other.  The  ferry-boat  made  a  huuhng  at  a  steep 
])hice:  the  carriage  had  to  be  dragged  up  by 
liand.  The  gentleman  had  a  very  heavy  calash. 
AN'hile  the  ferrymen  were  straining  themselves 
and  dragging  the  carriage  ashore,  the  gentleman 
trninted  so,  as  he  stood  on  the  boat,  that  one  even 

felt  sorry  for  him Here,  I  said  to  myself, 

is  a  new  application  of  the  system  of  the  division 
of  labour !  And  that 's  the  way  with  the  litera- 
ture of  the  present  day:  others  drag,  do  the  work, 
and  it  grunts." 

Darya  JNIikhailovna  smiled.  "  And  that  is 
called  the  reproduction  of  contemporary  exis- 
tence," went  on  the  irrepressible  PigasofF;  "  and 
a  profound  sympathy  with  social  problems,  and 

something  else  besides Okh,   I  have  no 

patience  with  those  big  words!  " 

"  But  the  women,  whom  you  assail  so, — they., 
at  least,  do  not  use  big  words." 

PigasofF  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  They  don't  use  them,  because  they  don't 
know  any." 

Dc4rya  ^likhailovna  blushed  slightly. 

"  You  are  beginning  to  utter  impertinences, 
Afrikan  Semyonitch!  "  she  remarked,  with  a  con- 
strained smile. 

Complete  silence  reigned  in  the  rooirj, 

32 


RUDIN 

"^Miere  is  Zolotonosha? "  one  of  the  little 
boys  suddenly  inquired  of  Basistoff . 

"  In  the  Government  of  Poltava,  my  dearest," 
put  in  PigasofF;  "  in  the  very  heart  of  Khokhlan- 
dia."  ^  (He  was  delighted  at  the  opportunity  to 
change  the  subject.)  "  We  were  speaking  of  lit- 
erature just  now,"  he  went  on;  "if  I  had  any 
spare  money,  I  would  immediately  become  a  Lit- 
tle Russian  poet." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  too?  A  fine  poet 
you  would  make!  "  retorted  Darya  ^likhailovna; 
"  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  miderstand  Little 
Russian?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  and  it 's  not  necessary." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  it  is  n't.  All  one  has  to  do  is  to  take 
a  sheet  of  paper  and  write  at  the  top,  '  jNIedita- 
tion  '  ;  then  begin  thus,  '  Hey,  thou  my  fate, 
fate ! '  or,  '  The  little  kazak  Nalivaiko  is  sitting 
on  tlie  mound ! '  And  then, '  Under  the  mountain, 
under  the  greenwood,  grae,  grae,  voropae,  hop! 
hop! '  or  something  in  that  style.  And  there  you 
have  it.  Print  it  and  publish  it.  The  I^ittle  Rus- 
sian will  read  it.  will  prop  his  cheek  on  his  hand, 
and  will  infallibly  fall  a-weeping, — such  a  senti- 
mental soul  is  he!  " 

"  Good  gracious  ! "  exclaimed  Basistoff. 
"  What 's  that  you  are  saying?    There  's  no  sense 

•  "  Khokhol  "  (topknot)  is  an  ironical  nickname  for  Little  Russians. 
Hence  KhokhKncIia,  Little  Russia.— Thanslator. 

3.'J 


RUDIN 

to  it.    I  have  lived  in  Little  Russia,  I  love  it,  and 

I  know  its  language '  Grae,  grae,  voro- 

pae  '  is  perfect  nonsense." 

"  Possibly,  but  the  Topknot  will  fall  a-weep- 
ing,  all  the  same.  You  say,  '  language.'  .... 
But  does  such  a  thing  as  a  I>.ittle  Russian  lan- 
guage exist?  I  once  asked  a  Little  Russian  to 
translate  the  following  phrase — the  first  one  that 
came  into  mv  head:  'Grammar  is  the  art  of  read- 
ing  and  writing  correctly.'  Do  you  know  how  he 
translated  it?  '  Khrammyr  ais  the  aiert  of  ryead- 
ing  ynd  wryaiting  corrayctly.'  ....  Is  that  a 
language,  in  your  opinion, — an  independent  lan- 
guage? Why,  sooner  than  agree  to  that,  I  'm 
ready  to  let  my  best  friend  pound  me  up  in  a 
mortar.  ..." 

Basistoff  w^as  on  the  point  of  retorting. 

"  Let  him  alone,"  said  Darya  JNIikhailovna. 
"  Surely  you  know  that  you  will  hear  nothing 
but  paradoxes  from  him." 

Pigasoff  smiled  sarcastically.  A  lackey  en- 
tered and  announced  the  arrival  of  Alexandra 
Pavlovna  and  her  brother. 

Darya  JVlikliailovna  rose  to  welcome  her 
guests. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Alexandrine! "  she  said,  as 
she  advanced  to  meet  her.  "  How  clever  of 
you  to  come!  ....  How  do  you  do,  Sergyei 
Pavlitch!" 

34 


RUDIX 

VolyntzefF  shook  Darya  ^Nlikliailovna's  hand, 
and  went  up  to  Xatalya  Alexyeevna. 

"  And  how  about  that  Baron,  your  new  ac- 
quaintance— is  he  coming  to-day  ?  "  inquired 
Pigasoff. 

"  Yes,  he  is  coming." 

"  He  's  a  great  philosopher;  they  say  he  fairly 
squirts  Hegel." 

Darya  ]Mikhailovna  made  no  answer,  seated 
Alexandra  Pavlovna  on  the  couch,  and  placed 
herself  beside  her. 

"  Philosophy,"  went  on  PigasoiF,  "  is  the 
highest  point  of  view.  That  will  be  the  death 
of  me  also;  those  highest  points  of  view.  And 
what  can  be  seen  above  them?  If  you  want  to 
buy  a  horse,  you  would  n't  inspect  it  from  a 
watch-tower,  would  you?  " 

"  That  Baron  was  to  bring  you  some  article  or 
other,  was  he  not  ?  "  asked  Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Darya  JNIikhailovna,  with  ex- 
aggerated carelessness;  "  an  article  about  the  re- 
lations between  trade  and  industry  in  Russia.  .  .  . 

But  have  no  fears;  we  will  not  read  it  here 

I  did  not  invite  you  for  that.  Le  harori  est  aiissi 
aimahle  que  savant.  And  he  talks  Russian  so 
well!    C'est  tin  vrai  torrent .  .  .  .il  vous  entraine." 

"  He  talks  Russian  so  well,"  remarked  Piga- 
soff, "  tliat  he  deserves  to  be  praised  in  French." 

"  Grumble  on,  Afrikan  Semyonitch,  grimible 

35 


RUDIN 

on.  It  suits  your  dishevelled  hair  admirahly. 
But  wliy  does  not  he  come?  Do  you  know,  mes- 
sieurs et  mesdames?  "  added  Darya  INIikhailovna, 
glancing  around  her.  "  Let  us  go  into  the  gar- 
den. .  .  .  There  is  still  an  hour  before  dinner, 
and  the  weather  is  splendid.  ..." 

The  whole  company  rose  and  went  into  the 
garden. 

Darya  jNIikhailovna's  garden  extended  clear  to 
the  river.  It  contained  many  ancient  linden  ave- 
nues, with  golden  shadows  and  fragrant  with 
emerald  openings  at  the  ends,  many  arbours  of 
acacias  and  lilacs. 

Volyntzeff,  with  Natalya  and  Mile.  Boncourt, 
betook  themselves  to  the  densest  thickets  of  the 
garden.  Volyntzeff  walked  by  the  side  of  Na- 
talya and  maintained  silence.  Mile.  Boncourt 
followed  at  a  little  distance. 

"  AVhat  have  3^ou  been  doing  to-day?  "  in- 
quired Volyntzeff  at  last,  twisting  the  tips  of  his 
very  handsome,  dark  chestnut  moustache. 

His  features  greatly  resembled  those  of  his 
sister;  but  their  expression  had  less  vivacity  and 
life,  and  his  handsome,  caressing  eyes  had  a 
somewhat  melancholy  look. 

"  Why,  nothing,"  replied  Natalya.  "  I  have 
been  listening  to  Pigasoff  scold,  embroidering  on 
canvas,  and  reading." 

"  And  what  have  you  been  reading?  " 

36 


RUDIN 

"  I  was  reading  ....  the  '  History  of  the  Cru- 
sades,' "  said  Xatalya,  with  some  hesitation. 

VolyntzefF  looked  at  her. 

"All!"  he  ejaculated  at  last;  "that  must  be 
interesting." 

He  broke  off  a  branch  and  began  to  twirl  it 
in  the  air.   They  walked  on  another  twenty  paces. 

"  \^Tio  's  that  Baron  with  whom  your  mama 
has  become  acquainted?  "  Volyntzeff  put  another 
question. 

"  A  gentleman  of  the  Imperial  Bedchamber,  a 
newcomer;  maman  praises  him  highly." 

"  Your  mama  is  capable  of  being  carried  away 
by  her  feelings." 

"  That  proves  that  she  is  still  very  young  in 
heart,"  remarked  Xatalya. 

"  Yes.  I  shall  soon  send  you  your  horse.  It 
is  almost  trained.  I  want  to  have  it  set  out  on  a 
gallop  on  the  instant,  and  I  shall  accomplish 
that." 

"  Merci!  ....  But  I  feel  ashamed.  You  are 
training  it  yourself  ....  they  say  that  is  very  diffi- 
cult," 

"  In  order  to  afford  you  the  slightest  gratifi- 
cation, you  know,  Xatalya  Alexyeevna,  I  am 
ready  ....  I  ....  tf)  do  more  than  sucli  trifles." 

Volyntzeff   stopped    short. 

X'atalya  cast  a  friendly  glance  at  him,  and 
again  said,  "  Merci!" 

37 


57077 


IIUDIN 

"  You  know,"  went  on  Sergyei  Pavlitch  after 
a  prolonged  pause,  "  that  there  is  nothing. .  .  .  liut 
why  do  1  say  this?     Surely  you  know  it  all  I  " 

At  that  moment  a  bell  rang  in  the  house. 

"^LJi!  la  cloche  du  diner!"  cried  Mile.  Bon- 
court;  "  rentrons." 

"  i^uel  dommage!  "  said  the  old  Frenchwoman 
to  herself,  as  she  mounted  the  steps  of  the  bal- 
cony behind  VolyntzefF  and  Natalya;  "quel 
dommage  que  ce  channant  garfon  ait  si  peu  de 

ressources  dans  la  conversation "    Which 

may  be  translated  into  Russian  thus:  "  Thou  art 
very  nice,  my  dear  fellow,  but  rather  a  sorry 
figure." 

The  Baron  did  not  arrive  for  dinner.  They 
waited  half  an  hour  for  him.  The  conversation 
at  table  flagged.  Sergyei  Pavlitch  did  nothing 
but  gaze  at  Natalya,  beside  whom  he  sat,  and 
diligently  pour  water  into  her  glass.  Panda- 
levsky  vainly  endeavoured  to  interest  his  neigh- 
bour, Alexandra  Pavlovna;  he  was  all  bubbling 
with  sweetness,  but  she  almost  yawned  in  his 
face. 

Basistoff  rolled  little  balls  of  bread  and 
thought  nothing;  even  PigasofF  held  his  peace, 
and  when  Darya  JNIikhailovna  observed  to  him 
that  he  was  very  far  from  amiable  to-day,  he 
replied  crustily:  "When  am  I  ever  amiable? 
That 's  not  my  business.  .  .  .  And,  with  a  bitter 
laugh,  he  added :  "  Wait  a  bit.  You  see,  I  'm  kvas, 

38 


RUDIX 

du  prostoi'  Russian  kvas ;  but  there  's  your  Gen- 
tleman of  the  Bedchamber.  ..." 

"Bravo!"  exclamied  Darya  jNIikhailovna. 
*' PigasofF  is  jealous — jealous  in  anticipation!" 

But  PigasofF  made  her  no  reply,  and  only  cast 
sidelong  glances. 

Seven  o'clock  struck,  and  all  again  assembled 
in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Evidently  he  is  not  coming,"  said  Darya 
ISIikhailovna. 

But  lo!  the  rumble  of  an  equipage  resounded, 
a  small  tarantas"  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  a  few 
moments  later  a  footman  entered  the  drawing- 
room  and  presented  a  letter  on  a  silver  salver 
to  Darya  ^likhailovna.  She  ran  her  eye  over 
it  to  the  end,  and,  turning  to  the  lackey,  in- 
quired : 

"  And  where  is  the  gentleman  who  brought 
this  letter?  " 

"  He  is  sitting  in  his  carriage,  madam.  Do 
vou  command  that  he  shall  be  received,  madam?" 

"  Ask  him  in." 

The  footman  left  the  room. 

"Just  imagine — how  vexatious!"  went  on 
Darya  ^likhailovna;  "  tlie  Baron  has  received 
orders  to  return  at  once  to  Petersburg.     lie  has 

1  Plain  kvas  is  n  sort  of  small  beer,  made  by  pniiriiitc  water  on  sour, 
black  rye  bread,  or  the  rye  meal,  lettinj?  it  ferment,  and  flavouring 
with  raisins,  straw,  watermelon-juice,  etc. — TnANsi,*iv>!;. 

2  The  Russian  postinj;  earria^re;  sprinpless,  shaped  like  a  barrel 
split  len;ftliwise,  filled  witli  straw  or  hay.  Sometimes  there  is  a  seat, 
sometimes  not.— TRANSiJkron. 

39 


RUDIN 

sent  nic  liis  article  by  a  certain  Mr.  Riklin,  his 
friend.  The  Baron  wished  to  introduce  him  to 
me — he  praised  him  highly.  But  how  annoy- 
ing this  is!  I  was  in  hopes  that  the  Baron  would 
spend  some  time  here." 

"  Dmitry    Nikolaevitch    Rudin,"    announced 
tlic  footman. 


Ill 

There  entered  a  man  of  thirty-five,  tall,  some- 
what romid-shouldered,  curly-haired,  swarthy  of 
complexion,  with  an  irregular  but  expressive  and 
clever  face,  with  a  faint  gleam  in  the  quick,  dark 
blue  eyes,  a  straight,  broad  nose,  and  finely 
chiselled  lips.  His  garments  were  not  new,  and 
were  too  tight  for  him,  as  though  he  had  out- 
grown them. 

He  walked  briskly  up  to  Darya  jNIikhailovna, 
made  her  a  brief  inclination,  told  her  that  he  had 
long  wished  to  have  the  honour  of  being  pre- 
sented to  her,  and  that  his  friend  the  Baron 
greatly  regretted  that  he  was  unable  to  take 
leave  of  her  in  person. 

The  shrill  tone  of  Riidin's  voice  did  not  cor- 
respond to  his  stature  and  his  broad  chest. 

"  Be  seated.  .  .  I  am  very  glad,"  said  Darya 
IMikhaflovna,  and,  after  introducing  him  to  the 
entire  company,  she  inquired  whether  he  be- 
longed in  the  neighbourhood  or  had  just  arrived. 

"  My  estate  is  in  the  T  .  .  .  Government,"  re- 
plied Rudin,  Iiolding  liis  hat  on  his  knees.  "  I 
have  not  been  here  long.  I  came  liither  on  busi- 
ness, and  have  settled  down,  for  the  time  being, 
in  your  county  town." 

4.1 


RUDIN 

"At  Avliose  house?" 

"  Tlie  doctor's.  He  was  an  old  comrade  of 
mine  in  the  university." 

"  xVh!  at  the  doctor's.  .  .  People  speak  highly 
of  liim.  They  say  he  understands  his  business. 
And  have  you  known  the  Baron  long?  " 

"  1  met  him  last  winter  in  INIoscow,  and  now 
I  have  just  been  spending  about  a  week  with 

him." 

"  He  is  a  very  clever  man — the  Baron." 

"  Yes,  madam." 

Darya  ^likhailovna  sniffed  at  a  knot  in  her 
pocket-handkerchief  which  was  saturated  with 
eau  de  Cologne. 

"  Are  you  in  the  service?  "  she  inquired. 

"Who?    I,  madam?" 

"  Yes." 

"  No.  .  .  I  am  on  the  retired  list." 

A  brief  pause  ensued.  The  general  conversa- 
tion was  resumed. 

"  Permit  me  to  be  so  curious  as  to  inquire," 
began  PigasofF,  addressing  Rudin,  "  are  you 
acquainted  with  the  contents  of  the  article  which 
the  Baron  has  sent?" 

"  I  am." 

"  That  article  deals  with  the  relations  of 
trade  ....  or  no,  what 's  its  name? — of  in- 
dustry to  trade  in  our  fatherland.  .  .  I  believe 
that  was  the  way  you  were  pleased  to  express  it, 
Darya  Mikhailovna?  " 

42 


RUDIN 

"  Yes,  it  does  deal  with  that  .  .  ."  said  Darya 
^likhailovna,  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  brow. 

"  I  am,  of  course,  a  poor  judge  of  such  mat- 
ters," went  on  Pigasoff;  "but  I  must  confess 
that  the  very  title  of  the  article  strikes  me  as  ex- 
tremely ....  how  can  I  say  it  most  delicately? .  .  . 
extremely  obscure  and  confused." 

"  Why  does  it  seem  so  to  you?  " 

PigasofF  grinned,  and  cast  a  fleeting  glance 
at  Darya  ]Mikhailovna. 

"  And  is  it  clear  to  you?  "  he  said,  again  turn- 
ing his  foxy  little  face  toward  Rudin. 

"Tome?    Yes." 

"H'm!  .  .  .  Of  course  you  must  know  best 
about  that." 

"Have  you  a  headache?"  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna  inquired  of  Darya  INIikhailovna. 

"  Xo.    It 's  a  wav  I  have  .  .  .  c'est  nerveux" 

"  Permit  me  to  inquire,"  began  Pigasoff 
again,  in  his  thin,  nasal  voice — "  your  acquain- 
tance, ]Mr.  Baron  MufFel  ...  I  believe  that  is  his 
name  f 

"  Yes,  exactly." 

"  Does  jNIr.  Baron  Muff  el  make  political  econ- 
omy his  special  study,  or  does  he  merely  devote 
to  that  interesting  science  the  hours  of  leisure 
which  are  left  in  tlic  midst  of  worldly  amuse- 
ments and  the  duties  of  the  service?  " 

Rudin  stared  intently  at  I'igasoff. 

"  The  Baron   is  a  dilettante  in  this  matter," 

4.8 


RUDIN 

he  replied,  flushing  shghtly;  "but  his  article 
contains  much  that  is  both  just  and  original." 

"  1  cannot  dispute  your  statement,  as  1  know 
nothing  of  the  article.  .  .  But  I  will  venture  to 
inquire  whether  the  composition  of  your  friend 
Baron  ^lufFel  does  not,  in  all  probability,  stick 
more  closely  to  general  arguments  than  to 
facts?" 

"  It  contains  both  facts  and  arguments 
founded  on  facts." 

"Just  so,  sir;  just  so,  sir.  I  must  inform 
you  that,  in  mj^  opinion  ....  and  I  may  be  al- 
lowed, on  occasion,  to  say  a  word  of  my  own:  I 
spent  three  years  in  Dorpat  ....  all  these 
so-called  general  arguments,  hypotheses,  sys- 
tems ....  excuse  me,  I  am  a  rustic,  I  blurt  the 
truth  straight  out  .  .  .  are  of  no  earthly  use.  The 
whole  thing  is  mere  reasoning,  and  serves  only  to 
mystify  people.  Hand  over  your  facts,  gentle- 
men, and  that 's  all  we  ask  of  you." 

"Really!"  retorted  Rudin.  "Well,  but  the 
meaning  of  the  facts  should  be  set  forth?  " 

"  General  arguments,"  pursued  Pigasoff ; 
"  those  general  arguments,  surveys,  deductions, 
will  be  the  death  of  me.  That  whole  business 
is  founded  on  so-called  convictions;  everybody 
prates  about  his  convictions  and  demands  respect 
for  them  to  boot." 

And  Pigasoff  brandished  his  clenched  fist  in 
the  air.     Pandalevsky  smiled. 

44 


RUDIN 

"Very  fine,  indeed!"  remarked  Rudin;  "so, 
according  to  you,  there  are  no  such  things  as 
convictions?  " 

"  Xo — and  they  don't  exist." 

"  That  is  your  conviction?  " 
1  es. 

"  How  can  you  say  that  there  are  none? 
There  's  one  for  you,  the  veiy  first  thing." 

All  the  persons  in  the  room  smiled  and  ex- 
changed glances. 

"  But  permit  me,  permit  me,"  PigasofF  was 
beginning.  .  .  . 

But  Darya  ^Nlikhailovna  clapped  her  hands, 
cried,  "Bravo,  bravo,  PigasofF  is  vanquished!" 
and  quietly  took  Rudin's  hat  from  his  hands. 

"Wait  a  bit  before  you  rejoice,  madam; 
you  '11  have  plenty  of  time,"  put  in  Pigasoff , 
with  vexation.  "  It  is  not  enough  to  utter  a  keen 
word,  with  an  air  of  superiority;  one  must  prove, 
refute.  .  .  .  We  have  digressed  from  the  subject 
under  discussion." 

"  Very  well,"  remarked  Riidin,  coldly;  "  it  is 
a  very  simple  matter.  You  do  not  believe  in 
the  advantage  of  general  arguments,  you  do  not 
believe  in  convictions.  ..." 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  them.  I  do  not.  I  do  not 
])elieve  in  anytliing!  " 

"  Very  good.     You  are  a  sceptic." 

"  T  see  no  necessity  for  using  so  learned  a 
word.     TTowevcr  .  .   .   .  " 

45 


RUDIN 

"  Do  not  keep  interrupting  continually!  "  in- 
terposed  Diirya  INIikhailovna. 

"Bite  him,  Towser,  bite  himl"  said  Panda- 
levskv  to  himself,  at  that  moment,  and  grinned 
to  the  full  extent  of  his  mouth. 

"  Tliat  word  expresses  my  thought,"  con- 
tinued Riidin.  "  You  understand  it ;  then  why 
not  use  it?  You  do  not  believe  in  anything.  .  .  . 
Then  why  believe  in  facts?  " 

"Why?  that's  excellent!  Facts  are  definite 
things;  everybod}^  knows  what  facts  are.  .  .  I 
judge  them  by  experience,  by  my  own  instinct." 

"  But  may  not  your  instinct  be  deceiving  you? 
Your  instinct  tells  you  that  the  sun  goes  round 
the  earth  ....  or,  perhaps,  you  do  not  agree  with 
Copernicus?    You  do  not  believe  him,  either?" 

Again  a  smile  flitted  across  all  faces,  and  the 
eyes  of  all  present  were  riveted  on  Rudin. 
"  Come,  he  's  not  a  stupid  man,"  thought  each 

one. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  do  nothing  but  jest," 
began  Pigasoff.  "  Of  course  it  is  very  original, 
but  it  does  not  suit  the  subject." 

"  In  what  I  have  said  so  far,"  retorted  Rudin, 
"  there  has  been,  unfortunately,  but  too  little 
that  is  original.  All  that  has  been  known  for  a 
very  long  time,  and  has  been  said  a  thousand 
times.    The  question  is.  .  .  .  " 

"  What?  "  inquired  PigasofF,  not  without  im- 
pertinence. 

46 


RUDIN 

In  a  dispute  he  was  wont  first  to  jeer  at  his 
opponent,  then  he  became  rude,  and,  finally, 
sulked  and  retreated  into  silence. 

"  This,"  went  on  Riidin.  "  I  must  confess  that 
I  cannot  help  feeling  sincere  pity  when  clever 
people  attack,  in  my  presence.  .  .  " 

"Systems?"  interrupted  PigasofF. 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,  call  it  systems.  Why 
does  that  word  alarm  you  so?  Every  system  is 
founded  upon  knowledge  of  the  fundamental 
laws — the  j^rinciples  of  life.  .  .  " 

"  But  it  is  impossible  to  know  them,  to  dis- 
cover them  .  .  .  good  gracious!" 

"  Pardon  me.  Of  course  they  are  not  ac- 
cessible to  every  one,  and  it  is  natural  to  man  to 
err.  But  you  will,  in  all  probability,  agree  with 
me  that,  for  example,  Xewton  discovered  at  least 
a  few  of  those  fundamental  laws.  He  was  a 
genius,  let  us  admit  that;  but  the  discoveries  of 
geniuses  are  great  precisely  because  they  become 
the  property  of  all  men.  The  effort  to  discover 
general  principles  in  partial  phenomena  is  one 
of  the  radical  properties  of  the  human  mind,  and 
the  whole  of  our  civilisation " 

"  So  that 's  what  you  're  after!  "  interrupted 
PigasofF,  in  a  drawling  tone.  "  I  am  a  prac- 
tical niaii,  and  I  do  not  enter  into,  and  have 
IK)  wish  to  enter  into,  all  tliose  meta])liysical 
subtleties.   .   .  " 

"Very   good!      That   depends   on   your   will. 

47 


RUDIN 

jBut  observe  that  your  very  desire  to  be  a  prac- 
tical man  is,  in  its  way,  a  system,  a  theory.  ..." 

"  CiviHsation,  you  say!"  put  in  Pigasoff; 
"  a  pretty  thing  you  've  taken  it  into  your  head  to 
surprise  us  with!  Who  cares  for  it,  that  much- 
lauded  civihsation!  I  wouldn't  give  a  copper 
fartliing  for  vour  civilisation!" 

"  But  how  improperly  you  are  arguing,  Afri- 
kan  Semyonitch!"  remarked  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna,  inwardly  delighted  to  the  last  degree  with 
the  composure  and  elegant  courtesy  of  her  new 
acquaintance.  "  C'esi  un  lioinme  comme  il 
faut/'  she  thought,  casting  a  glance  of  approv- 
ing attention  at  Riidin's  face.  "  I  must  attract 
him  by  friendly  treatment."  She  mentally  ut- 
tered these  last  words  in  Russian. 

"  I  will  not  undertake  to  defend  civilisation," 
went  on  Rudin,  after  a  brief  pause ;  "  it  does  not 
stand  in  need  of  my  protection.  You  do  not 
love  it .  .  .  every  one  has  his  own  taste.  INIoreover, 
that  would  lead  us  too  far.  Permit  me  merely 
to  remind  you  of  an  ancient  adage:  'Jupiter, 
thou  waxest  wroth;  therefore,  thou  art  in  the 
wrong.'  What  I  wished  to  say  was  that  all  these 
attacks  upon  systems,  upon  general  arguments, 
and  so  forth,  are  particularly  vexatious  because, 
together  with  the  systems,  people  reject  know- 
ledge in  general,  science  and  faith  therein,  con- 
sequently, also,  faith  in  themselves,  in  their 
powers.     But  people  need  that  faith;  they  can- 

48 


RtJDIN 

not  live  on  impressions  alone,  it  is  a  sin  for  them 
to  fear  thought  and  not  to  believe  it.  Scepti- 
cism has  always  been  distinguished  by  sterility 
and  impotence.  ..." 

"  All  that  is  mere  words!  "  muttered  Pigasoff. 

"  Possibly.  But  permit  me  to  call  your  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  by  saying,  '  All  that  is  mere 
words ! '  we  frequently  desire  to  rid  ourselves 
of  the  necessity  of  saying  an}i:hing  more  perti- 
nent than  mere  words." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  asked  Pigasoff, 
and  screwed  up  his  eyes. 

"  You  have  understood  what  I  meant  to  saj^ 
to  you,"  retorted  Riidin,  with  involuntary  but 
instantaneously  repressed  impatience.  "  I  re- 
peat, if  a  man  hsfc  no  strong  principle  in  which 
he  believes,  no  ground  whereon  he  stands  firmly, 
how  can  he  understand  the  details,  the  signifi- 
cance, the  future  of  his  nation?  How  can  he 
know  what  he  ought  to  do  himself  if  ....  " 

"  Honour  to  whom  honour  is  due!  "  said  Piga- 
soff abruptly,  bowed,  and  retired  to  one  side, 
without  looking  at  any  one. 

Rudin  looked  at  him,  laughed  slightly,  and 
fell  silent, 

"  Aha!  he  has  beaten  a  retreat!  "  said  Darya 
ISrikhaflovna.  "  Do  not  disturb  yourself,  l^mi- 
try.  .  .  .  Excuse  me,"  she  added,  with  an  affable 
smile,  "  what  is  your  patronymic?  " 

"  Xikolaitch." 

49 


RUDIN 

"  Do  not  disturb  yourself,  my  dear  Dmitn^ 
Nikolaitc'h.  lie  has  not  deceived  any  of  us.  He 
Avants  to  pretend  that  he  does  not  wish  to  argue 

any  more He  is  conscious  that  he  cannot 

argue  witli  you.  But  you  liad  better  take  a  seat 
nearer  to  us  and  we  will  have  a  chat." 

Rudin  moved  his  chair  closer. 

"  How  is  it  that  we  have  not  made  acquain- 
tance before? "  went  on  Darya  Mikhailovna. 
*'  I  am  amazed!  .  .  .  Have  you  read  this  book? 
C'est  de  Tocqueville,  vans  savez" 

And  Darva  jNIikhailovna  handed  Rudin  the 
French  pamphlet. 

Rudin  took  the  thin  little  book  in  his  hand, 
turned  over  a  few  pages,  and,  laying  it  on  the 
table  again,  replied  that  he  had  not  read  that 
particular  work  of  INI.  Tocqueville,  but  had 
often  meditated  on  the  subject  which  the  latter 
dealt  with  therein. 

A  conversation  arose.  At  first  Rudin  seemed 
to  waver,  seemed  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  to 
speak  out,  could  not  hit  upon  words,  but  at  last 
he  warmed  up  and  began  to  talk.  At  the  end 
of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  his  voice  alone  resounded 
in  the  room.  All  present  clustered  in  a  circle 
around  him. 

Pigasoff  alone  remained  at  a  distance  in  the 
corner  near  the  fireplace.  Rudin  talked  clev- 
erly, fervently,  judiciously;  he  displayed  much 
learning,  much  reading.     No  one  had  expected 

50 


RUDIN 

to  find  in  him  a  man  of  great  parts.  .  .  He  was  so 
ordinarily  dressed,  so  few  rumours  about  him  j 
had  been  in  circulation.  It  struck  them  all  as| 
strange  and  incomprehensible  that  such  a  clever/ 
person  could  suddenly  make  his  appearance  in 
country  parts.  All  the  more  did  he  surprise 
and,  we  may  say,  enchant  them  all,  beginning 
with  Darya  ]Mikhailovna.  .  .  .  She  was  proud  of 
her  discovery,  and  began  to  plan  ahead  how  she 
would  introduce  Rudin  to  society.  In  her  first 
impressions  there  was  much  that  was  childish, 
despite  her  years.  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  to  tell 
the  truth,  understood  very  little  of  all  that  Rudin 
said,  but  she  was  greatly  amazed  and  delighted; 
her  brother,  also,  was  astonished.  Pandalevsky 
watched  Darya  Mikhailovna  and  waxed  envious. 
Pigasoff  said  to  himself,  '  I  '11  give  five  hundred 
rubles,  and  I  '11  get  a  still  better  nightingale! '  .  .  . 
But  Basistoff  and  Xatalya  were  the  most  dum- 
founded  of  all.  Basistoff  was  almost  deprived 
of  breath;  he  sat  the  whole  time  with  gaping 
mouth  and  eyes  protruding  from  their  sockets, 
and  listened,  listened  as  he  had  never  listened  to 
any  one  since  he  was  born,  while  Xatalya's  face 
became  overspread  with  a  brilliant  crimson  hue, 
and  her  gaze,  immovably  riveted  upon  Rudin, 
both  darkened  and  slione  radiantly.   .   . 

"  Wliat  magnificent  eyes  he  has!"  Volyntzeff 
whis})ered  to  her. 

*'  Yes,  they  are  nice." 

51 


RUDIN 

"  Only  it 's  a  pity  that  his  hands  are  large  and 
red." 

Natiilya  made  no  reply. 

Tea  was  served.  The  conversation  became 
HKn-e  general,  but  from  the  mere  suddenness  with 
which  all  fell  silent  the  moment  Riidin  opened 
his  mouth,  one  could  judge  of  the  strength  of  the 
impression  he  had  produced.  All  of  a  sudden 
Darva  ^likliailovna  was  seized  with  a  whim  to 
tease  PigasofF.  She  approached  him,  and  said 
in  an  undertone,  "  Why  do  you  remain  silent, 
and  merely  smile  maliciously?  Just  make  an  ef- 
fort, grapple  with  him  again,"  and,  without 
aM^aiting  his  reply,  she  beckoned  Riidin  up  with 
her  hand. 

"  There  is  still  one  thing  which  you  do  not 
know  about  him,"  she  said  to  him,  pointing  at 
PigasofF;  "he  is  a  terrible  woman-hater,  he  is 
incessantly  attacking  women;  please  turn  him 
into  the  paths  of  truth." 

Riidin  looked  at  PigasofF  ....  involuntarily 
looked  down  on  him:  he  was  the  taller  by  two 
heads.  PigasofF  almost  curled  up  with  wrath, 
and  his  sallow  face  became  pallid. 

"  Darya  INIikhailovna  is  mistaken,"  he  began 
in  an  unsteady  voice.  "  I  do  not  attack  women 
alone.  I  am  not  very  fond  of  the  human  race 
as  a  whole." 

"  What  can  have  given  you  such  a  poor  opin- 
ion of  it?  "  asked  Rudin. 

!^'2 


RUDIX 

Pigasoff  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye. 

"  Probably  the  study  of  my  own  heart,  in 
which  I  discoyer,  day  by  day,  more  trash.  I 
judge  of  others  by  myself.  Perhaps  that  is  un- 
just, and  I  am  a  great  deal  worse  than  other  men; 
but  what  am  I  to  do?    'T  is  a  habit! " 

"  I  understand  you  and  sympathise  with  you," 
returned  Riidin.  "  What  noble  soul  has  not  ex- 
perienced the  thirst  for  self -depreciation?  But 
one  must  not  remain  in  that  helpless  position." 

"  I  humbly  thank  you  for  issuing  a  certificate 
of  nobility  to  my  soul,"  retorted  Pigasoff;  "  but 
my  position  is  all  right,  it  is  n't  a  bad  one,  so  that 
eyen  if  there  is  any  issue  from  it — why,  I  don't 
care!     I  shall  not  seek  it." 

"  But  that  means — pardon  the  expression — 
that  you  give  the  preference  to  the  satisfaction 
of  your  self-loye  oyer  your  desire  to  be  and  to 
live  in  the  truth.  ..." 

"  ]SIost  certainly!  "  exclaimed  Pigasoff;  "  self- 
love  I  can  understand,  and  you,  I  hope,  under- 
stand it,  and  every  one  understands  it;  but  the 
truth — what  is  truth?    Where  is  it,  that  truth?  " 

"  You  are  repeating  yourself,  I  warn  you,'* 
remarked  Darya  Mikhailovna. 

Pigasoff  hunched  his  shoulders. 

"  Where's  the  harm  in  that?  I  ask;  where  is 
truth?  Even  the  philosophers  do  not  know  what 
it  is.  Kant  says,  '  This  is  it '  ;  but  Hegel  says, 
'  Xo,  you  are  mistaken;  this  is  it. 

-3 


>  ?> 


RUDIN 

*'  But  do  you  know  what  Hegel  says  about 
it?"  asked  Rudiii,  without  raising  his  voice. 

"  I  repeat,"  went  on  Pigiisoff,  who  was  now 
in  a  rase,  "  that  1  cannot  understand  what  is 
truth.  In  my  opinion,  it  does  not  exist  in  the 
world  at  all — that  is  to  say,  the  word  exists,  but 
the  thing  itself  does  not." 

"Fie!  Fie!"  cried  Darya  Mikhailovna. 
"  Are  n't  you  ashamed  to  say  that,  you  old  sin- 
ner! There  is  no  truth?  After  that,  what  is  there 
in  the  world  to  live  for?  " 

"  WhJ^  I  think,  Darya  INIikhailovna,"  re- 
torted Pigasoff ,  with  irritation,  "  that,  in  any 
case,  vou  would  find  it  easier  to  live  in  the  world 
without  truth  than  without  your  cook,  Stepan, 
who  is  such  a  master-hand  at  making  beef  broth ! 
And  tell  me,  for  mercy's  sake,  what  do  you  want 
of  truth?  Why,  you  cannot  make  a  mob-cap 
out  of  it !  " 

"  A  jest  is  not  an  answer,"  remarked  Darya 
]\likhailovna;  "especially  when  it  runs  into  as- 
persion." .  .  . 

"  I  do  not  know  what  the  truth  is  like,  but, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  evidently  it  puts  your  eyes 
out,"  muttered  Pigasoff,  and  stepped  aside  in 
wrath. 

But  Rudin  began  to  talk  about  self-love,  and 
talked  very  sensibly.  He  demonstrated  that 
man  without  self-love  is  a  cipher,  that  self-love 
is  the  lever  of  Archimedes,  wherewith  the  earth 
may  be  moved  from  its  place,  but  that,  at  the 

54 


RUDIX 

same  time,  only  he  deserves  the  appellation  of 
man  \\4io  miderstands  how  to  control  his  self- 
love  as  a  rider  controls  his  horse,  who  sacrifices 
his  personality  to  the  general  welfare 

"  Selfishness,"  he  wound  up,  "  is  suicide.  The 
selfish  man  withers  up  like  an  isolated,  sterile 
tree;  but  self-love,  in  its  quality  of  an  effective 
effort  toward  perfection,  is  the  origin  of  every- 
thing great.  .  .  Yes!  a  man  must  break  the  obsti- 
nate egoism  of  his  individuality  in  order  to  give 
it  a  right  to  announce  its  meaning !  " 

"Cannot  you  lend  me  a  pencil?"  Pigasoff 
asked  Basistoff. 

BasistofF  did  not  immediately  understand 
what  Pigasoff  had  asked  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  a  pencil?  "  he  said  at 
last. 

"  I  want  to  write  down,  at  least,  that  last 
phrase  of  Mr.  Rudin's.  If  I  don't  write  it  down, 
I  shall  certainly  forget  it!  And  you  must  ad- 
mit that  such  a  phrase  is  equivalent  to  taking 
all  the  tricks  in  the  game." 

"  There  are  things  at  which  it  is  a  sin  to  laugh 
and  sneer,  Afrikan  Semyonitch!  "  said  BasistofF, 
with  heat,  and  turned  his  back  on  Pigasoff. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Rudin  had  stepped  up  to 
Natalya.  She  rose;  her  face  expressed  per- 
plexity. 

Volyntzeff,  wlio  was  sitting  beside  her,  rose 
also. 

"  I  sec  a  pianoforte,"  said   Kndin,  softly  and 

55 


RUDIN 

affably,  like  a  prince  on  liis  travels.     "  Do  not 
you  play  on  it?  " 

"  Yes,  1  play,"  said  Natalya;  "but  not  very 
well.  Konstantin  Dioniiditcb,  yonder,  plays 
much  better  than  1  do." 

Pandalevsky  thrust  forward  his  face  and 
showed  his  teeth. 

"  You  have  no  reason  to  say  that,  Natalya 
Alexyeevna;  j^ou  play  quite  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Do  you  know  Schubert's  '  Erlkonig  '  ?  "  in- 
quired lludin. 

"He  does,  he  does!"  interposed  Darya  Mi- 
khailovna.     "  Sit  down,  Constaiitin.  .  .  And  you 
love  music,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch?" 

Rudin  merely  bent  his  head  slightly,  and 
passed  his  hand  over  his  hair,  as  though  prepar- 
ing to  listen.  .  .  .  Pandalevsky  began  to  play. 

Natalya  stood  by  the  piano,  directly  opposite 
Riidin.  At  the  first  sound  his  face  assumed  a 
very  beautiful  expression.  His  dark  blue  eyes 
slowly  roved  about,  now  and  then  halting  on  Na- 
talya.    Pandalevsky  finished. 

Rudin  said  nothing,  and  walked  to  the  open 
window.  A  fragrant  mist  lay  in  a  soft  veil  over 
the  park;  the  near-by  trees  breathed  forth  a 
slumberous  coolness.  The  stars  glowed  softly. 
The  summer  night  lulled  itself  and  soothed. 
Rudin  gazed  out  into  the  obscure  park  and 
turned  round. 

"  This  music  and  this  night,"  he  said,  "  have 

50 


RUDIX 

reminded  me  of  my  student  days  in  Germanj^ 
— our  reunions,  our  serenades.  .  .  " 

"  And  have  you  been  in  Germany? "  asked 
Darya  ]Mikhailovna. 

"  I  spent  a  year  at  Heidelberg  and  about  a 
year  in  Berlin." 

"  And  did  you  dress  in  student  fashion?  I 
am  told  that  they  dress  rather  peculiarly  there." 

"  In  Heidelberg  I  wore  big  boots  with  spurs, 
and  a  braided  hussar  jacket,  and  my  hair  grew 
down  to  my  shoulders.  ...  In  Berlin  the  students 
dress  like  everybody  else." 

"  Do  tell  us  sometliing  about  j'-our  student 
life?"  said  Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

Rudin  began  to  narrate.  He  was  not  quite 
successful  in  his  narration.  His  descriptions 
lacked  colour.  He  did  not  understand  how 
to  excite  laughter.  However,  Riidin  speedily 
])assed  from  stories  of  his  foreign  adventures  to 
general  reflections  upon  the  significance  of 
learning  and  science,  upon  the  universities  and 
university  life  in  general.  In  broad,  bold  out- 
lines, he  sketched  a  vast  picture.  All  listened  to 
liirri  with  profound  attention.  He  talked  in 
a  masterly  manner,  fascinatingly,  not  quite 
clearlv  .  .  .  but  tliis  very  lack  of  clearness  im- 
])arted  a  certain  charm  to  his  speech. 

The  abimdance  of  his  thouglits  ])revented  Ru- 
din from  expressing  liimself  definitely  and  ac- 
curately.     Images    followed    images;    compari- 

57 


RUDIN 

sons,  iiow  unexpectedly  daring,  again  strikingly 
faithful,  succeeded  each  other.  His  impatient 
improvisation  breathed  forth  not  the  conceited 
refinement  of  an  experienced  chatterer,  but  in- 
spiration. He  did  not  seek  his  words;  they  came 
obediently  and  freely  of  their  own  accord  to 
his  lips,  and  every  word  seemed  to  pour  forth 
straight  from  his  soul,  glowing  with  all  the  fire 
of  conviction.  Riidin  possessed  what  is  almost 
the  highest  mystery — the  music  of  eloquence. 
He  understood  how,  b}"  thrumming  upon  one  of 
the  heart's  chords,  to  make  it  emit  a  troubled 
sound  and  set  all  the  others  to  quivering.  Any 
given  hearer  might  not  be  able  to  imderstand 
precisely  w'hat  the  speech  was  about;  but  his 
breast  heaved  high,  some  curtains  or  other 
parted  before  his  eyes,  something  radiant  blazed 
up  in  front  of  him. 

All  of  Rudin's  thoughts  seemed  to  be  directed 
toward  the  future;  this  imparted  to  them  an  im- 
petuous, youthful  character Standing  at 

the  window,  looking  at  no  one  in  particular,  he 
talked  on;  and,  inspired  by  the  universal  sym- 
pathy and  attention,  by  the  proximity  of  young 
women,  by  the  beauty  of  the  night,  carried  away 
by  the  flood  of  his  own  sensations,  he  rose  to 
eloquence,  to  poetry.  .  .  The  very  sound  of  his 
voice,  concentrated  and  quiet,  heightened  the 
spell;  it  seemed  as  though  something  lofty,  un- 
expected by  himself,  were  being  uttered  by  his 

08 


RUDIN 

mouth.  .  .  Rudin  spoke  about  that  which  gives 
eternal  significance  to  the  temporal  life  of  man. 

"  I  remember  a  Scandinavian  legend,"  he  \. 
said  in  conclusion;  "a  king  is  sitting  with  his 
warriors  in  a  long,  dark  shed,  around  the  fire. 
It  is  night — winter.  All  at  once  a  tiny  bird  flies 
in  through  one  open  door  and  flies  out  through 
another.  The  king  remarks  that  the  bird  is  like 
man  in  the  world :  he  has  flown  in  from  the  dark- 
ness, and  he  flies  forth  into  the  darkness,  and 
has  not  remained  long  in  the  warmth  and  the 
light.  .  .  .  '  King,'  returns  the  oldest  of  his  war- 
riors, '  the  bird  will  not  get  lost  in  the  darkness, 
and  will  find  its  nest.'  .  .  .  Exactlv  so,  our  life  is 
swift  and  trivial ;  but  everything  great  is  effected 
through  the  agency  of  men.  The  consciousness 
that  one  is  the  tool  of  those  higher  powers  ought 
to  requite  a  man  for  all  other  joys;  in  death  it- 
self he  will  find  his  life,  his  nest.  ..." 

Rudin  paused,  and  lowered  his  eyes  with  a 
smile  of  involuntary  confusion. 

"  Vous  ctes  tin  poete"  said  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna,  in  a  low  voice. 

And  they  all  inwardly  agreed  with  her, — all, 
with  the  exception  of  PigasofF.  Without  wait- 
ing for  the  end  of  Rudin's  speech,  he  had  quietly 
taken  his  hat,  and  as  he  departed  he  liad  re- 
marked in  a  wratliful  whisper  to  Pandalevsky, 
who  stood  near  the  door: 

"  No!    I  'm  going  to  the  fools." 

.50 


RUDIN 

But  no  one  detained  him  or  noticed  his  ab 
sence. 

The  servants  brought  in  the  supper,  and  half 
an  hour  hiter  all  had  driven  or  walked  away. 
Diirva  Mikhailovna  requested  Rudin  to  stay 
overnight.  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  as  she  was  re- 
turning home  in  the  carriage  with  her  brother, 
several  times  began  to  exclaim  and  to  admire  Ru- 
din's  remarkable  mind.  Volyntzeff  agreed  with 
her,  but  remarked  that  he  had  sometimes  ex- 
pressed himself  rather  obscurely  .  .  .  that  is  to  say, 
not  quite  intelligibly,  he  added,  being  desirous, 
probably,  of  making  his  own  thought  clear;  but 
his  face  clouded  over,  and  his  gaze,  riveted  upon 
one  corner  of  the  carriage,  seemed  to  have  be- 
come more  melancholy  than  ever. 

Pandalevsky,  as  he  prepared  himself  for  bed 
and  took  off  his  silk-embroidered  suspenders, 
said  aloud,  "  A  very  adroit  man!  "  and  all  of  a 
sudden,  witli  a  stern  glance  at  his  youthful  valet, 
ordered  him  to  leave  the  room.  Basistoff  did 
not  sleep  all  night  long,  and  did  not  undress 
until  morning  dawned;  he  wrote  at  a  letter  to  a 
comrade  of  his  in  Moscow,  while  Natalya,  al- 
though she  undressed  and  got  into  bed,  did  not 
sleep  for  a  single  minute,  and  did  not  even  close 
her  eyes.  With  her  head  resting  on  her  hand, 
she  stared  intently  into  darkness;  her  pulse  beat 
feverishly,  and  her  breast  heaved,  from  time 
to  time,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

60 


IV 

The  next  morning,  Rudin  had  just  finished 
dressing  when  a  man-servant  presented  himself 
from  Darva  ]Mikhailovna,  with  an  invitation  to 
be  so  good  as  to  come  to  her  boudoir  and  drink 
tea  with  her.  Riidin  found  her  alone.  She  bade 
him  good  morning  in  a  very  amiable  manner, 
inquired  whether  he  had  passed  a  good  night, 
poured  him  out  a  cup  of  tea  with  her  own  hands, 
even  asked  M-hether  there  was  enough  sugar,  of- 
fered him  a  cigarette,  and  twice  repeated  that 
she  was  surprised  that  she  had  not  made  his  ac- 
quaintance long  before.  Rudin  made  a  move- 
ment to  seat  himself  at  some  distance ;  but  Darya 
^likhailovna  pointed  to  a  softly  stuffed  imtc 
which  stood  beside  her  arm-chair,  and,  bending 
slightly  in  liis  direction,  began  to  question  him 
concerning  his  family,  his  plans  and  projects. 
Diirya  ^likhai'lovna  talked  carelessly,  listened 
abstractedly;  but  Rudin  understood  quite  well 
that  she  was  paying  court  to  him,  almost  cajoling 
him.  Not  for  nothing  had  she  arranged  this  ma- 
tutinal meeting,  not  for  nothing  had  she  gowned 
lierself  simply  ])ut  elegantly,  a  la  ISfadame  Re- 
camier!     However,    Darya    Mlkhailovna    soon 

61 


IIUDIN 

ceased  to  question  him;  she  began  to  tell  him 
about  herself,  about  her  youth,  about  the  people 
with  wliom  she  was  ae(iuainte(l.  Rudin  listened 
with  sympathy  to  her  idle  prattle,  although, 
strange  to  say,  no  matter  what  person  Darya 
Mikhailovna  talked  about,  she  still  remained 
constantly  in  the  foreground, — she  alone, — and 
the  other  individual  somehow  crept  away  and 
vanished.  On  the  other  hand,  Rudin  learned  in 
detail  precisely  what  Darya  ^likhailovna  had 
said  to  such  and  such  a  noted  dignitary,  w^hat  in- 
fluence she  had  exerted  upon  such  and  such  a 
famous  poet.  Judging  from  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna's  stories,  one  might  have  thought  that  all 
the  celebrated  people  of  the  last  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury had  dreamed  of  nothing  else  but  how  to  try 
and  see  her,  how  to  gain  her  favour.  She  talked 
about  them  simply,  without  especial  raptures 
and  praises,  as  of  members  of  her  own  family, 
callinff  some  of  them  eccentrics.  She  talked 
about  them,  and,  like  a  costly  setting  round  a 
jewel,  their  names  were  ranged  in  a  brilliant  bor- 
der around  the  chief  name — around  Darya 
Mikhailovna.  .  .  . 

But  Rudin  listened  as  he  smoked  his  cigarette, 
and  maintained  silence,  only  now  and  then  inter- 
jecting small  remarks  into  the  discourse  of  the 
loquacious  lady.  He  knew  how  to  talk  and  was 
fond  of  talking  himself;  he  w^as  not  only  strong 
at  conducting  a  conversation,  but  he  knew  how  to 

32 


RUDIN 

listen  also.  Every  one  whom  he  did  not  alarm 
at  the  start  unbosomed  himself  confidentially  in 
his  presence,  so  readily  and  approvingly  did  he 
follow  the  thread  of  the  other  person's  narrative. 
There  was  much  good  nature  in  him, — that  spe- 
cial sort  of  good  nature  wherewith  people  who 
are  accustomed  to  feel  themselves  su4ierior  to 
others  are  filled.  In  argument  he  rarely  gave 
his  adversary  a  chance  to  have  his  say,  and  over- 
whelmed him  with  his  impetuous  and  passionate 
dialectics. 

Darya  ]\Iikhailovna  explained  herself  in  Rus- 
sian. She  liked  to  show  off  her  proficiency  in  her 
native  language,  although  Gallicisms  and  small 
French  words  often  occurred  in  her  speech. 
She  deliberately  employed  ordinary,  vernacular 
terms,  but  not  always  with  success.  Riidin's  ear 
was  not  offended  by  the  strange  medley  of  lan- 
guage on  the  lips  of  Darya  ^Nlikhailovna,  and 
the  probability  is  that  he  lacked  the  ear  for 
that. 

Darya  ^likhailovna  became  fatigued  at  last, 
and,  leaning  her  head  against  the  cushion  at  the 
back  of  her  chair,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  Riidin 
and  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  I  understand  now,"  began  Rudin  in  a  delib- 
erate tone —  "  I  understand  why  you  come  to 
the  country  every  summer.  Tliis  repose  is  indis- 
pensa})le  for  you;  tlie  rustic  tran(]uillity,  after 
the  life  of  the  capital,  refreshes  and  strengthens 

63 


RUUIN 

you.      I   am  convinced  tliat   you  must  be  pro- 
foundly sensitive  to  the  beauties  of  nature." 

Diirya  JSlikliailovna  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at 
Kiidin. 

"  Nature  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes,  of  course.  .  .  I  am 
awfully  fond  of  it;  but  you  know,  Dnn'try  Niko- 
laitch,  that  one  cannot  get  along  in  the  country 
without  people.  And  there  is  hardly  any  one  here. 
Pigasoff  is  the  cleverest  man  in  these  parts." 

"  The  choleric  old  fellow  of  last  evening?  "  in- 
quired Rudin. 

"  Yes,  that  man.  .  .  .  However,  in  the  country, 
even  he  is  useful — if  only  to  raise  a  laugh  now 
and  then." 

"  He  is  far  from  a  stupid  man,"  returned 
Riidin;  "  but  he  is  on  the  wrong  road.  I  do  not 
know  whether  you  agree  with  me,  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna,  but  in  negation — in  complete  and  univer- 
sal negation — there  is  no  blessing.  Deny  every- 
thing, and  you  may  easily  pass  for  a  clever 
person;  that  is  a  familiar  bait.  Good-natured 
people  are  ready  to  conclude  on  the  spot  that  you 
stand  higher  than  the  thing  you  deny.  And  this 
is  frequently  untrue.  In  the  first  place,  a  flaw 
may  be  discovered  in  everji:hing;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  even  if  you  are  stating  a  fact,  you 
are  only  the  worse  off;  your  mind,  directed 
only  toward  negation,  becomes  poverty-stricken, 
withers  away.  By  satisfying  your  self-love  you 
deprive  yourself  of  the  true  joys  of  contempla- 

64 


RUDIN 

tion ;  life — the  essence  of  life — escapes  from  your 
petty  and  sjDlenetic  observation,  and  you  will  end 
by  snarling  and  exciting  laughter.  Only  he  who 
loves  has  a  right  to  censure,  to  chide." 

"Voila  M — /•.  P'lgdsoff  entcrre! "  remarked 
Darya  ]Mikhailovna.  "  What  a  master-hand  you 
are  at  defining  a  man !  However,  Pigasoff ,  in  all 
probability,  did  not  understand  you.  He  loves 
only  his  own  person." 

"  And  reviles  it,  with  the  object  of  having  a 
right  to  revile  others,"  chimed  in  Rudin. 

Darya  ^Slikhailovna  laughed. 

"  '  He  judges  the  sound  ' — how  is  it  the  prov- 
erb runs  .  .  .  .  '  he  judges  the  sound  by  the  sick.' 
By  the  way,  what  do  you  think  of  the  Baron? " 

"Of  the  Baron?  He  is  a  nice  man,  with  a 
kind  heart,  and  well  informed  ....  but  he  lacks 
force  of  character  .  .  .  and  all  his  life  long  he  will 
remain  half  a  learned  man,  half  a  man  of  the 
world — that  is  to  say,  a  dilettante ;  that  is  to  sav, 
to  express  it  point-blank — nothing.  .  .  .  But 't  is 
a  pity! " 

"  I  am  of  that  opinion  myself,"  replied  Darya 
JNIikhailovna.  "  1  have  read  his  article.  .  .  Entre 
noiifi  .  .  .  ccla  a  asficz  pen  de  fond " 

"  Whom  else  have  you  in  tlie  neighbourhood?  " 
iiH|nired  Rudin,  after  a  pause. 

Djirya  Mikhai'lovna  flicked  the  aslics  from 
her  tiny,  straw-covered  cigarette  with  her  little 
finger. 

05 


RUDIN 

"  Why,  there  is  hardly  any  one  else.  Mme. 
Lipin,  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  whom  you  saw 
yesterday;  she  is  very  ehanning — but  that  is  all. 
Ilcr  brother  is  also  a  very  fine  man — un  parfait 
honnctc  hommc.  Prince  Garin  you  know.  That 
is  all.  There  are  two  or  three  other  neighbours, 
but  they  count  for  absolutely  nothing.  Either 
they  are  capricious — their  airs  are  dreadful — or 
they  are  shy,  or  else  they  are  unduly  free  and 
easy.  I  do  not  receive  ladies,  as  you  know.  There 
is  still  one  other  neighbour,  a  very  cultured,  even 
a  learned  man,  they  say,  but  a  frightfully  ec- 
centric person — fantastic.  Alexandrine  knows 
him,  and,  apparently,  is  not  indifferent  to  him.  .  . 
There,  now,  you  ought  to  study  her,  Dmitry 
Xikolaitch;  she  is  a  lovely  creature;  all  she  needs 
is  to  be  developed  a  little.  She  must  be  devel- 
oped, without  fail!  " 

"  She  is  very  sympathetic,"  remarked  Riidin. 

"  A  perfect  child,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch,  a  real 
child.  She  was  married — mais  c'est  tout  comjne. 
...  If  I  had  been  a  man  I  would  have  fallen  in 
love  with  no  other  sort  of  women." 

"Reallv?" 

"  Absolutely.  Such  women,  at  all  events, 
are  fresh,  and  freshness  cannot  be  counter- 
feited." 

"And  everything  else  can?"  inquired  Rudin, 
and  laughed,  which  very  rarely  happened  with 
him.      When   he   laughed   his   face   assumed   a 

66 


RUDIN 

strange,  almost  senile,  expression,  his  eyes  grew 
small,  his  nose  wrinkled  up.  .  . 

"  And  who  is  the  man  whom  you  called  an 
eccentric,  and  to  whom  ^Ime.  Lipin  is  not  in- 
different? "  he  asked. 

"  A  certain  LezhnyofF,  ^Nlikhailo  ^Mikhailitch, 
a  landed  proprietor  of  this  neighbourhood." 

Rudin  was  surprised,  and  raised  his  head. 

"Lezhnvoff,  Mikhailo  Mikhailitch? "  he 
asked;  "  is  he  a  neighbour  of  yours?  " 

"  Yes.     And  do  you  know  him?  " 

Riidin  did  not  reply  for  a  space. 

"  I  used  to  know  him  before  ....  long  ago. 
He  is  a  wealthy  man,  I  believe?  "  he  added,  pluck- 
ing at  the  fringe  of  the  arm-chair  with  his 
hand. 

"  Yes,  he  is  wealthy,  although  he  dresses  hor^ 
ribly,  and  drives  about  in  a  racing-gig,  like  a 
clerk.  I  would  have  liked  to  attract  him  to  my 
house ;  he  is  clever,  thev  say,  and  I  have  a  matter 

of  business  to  settle  with  him You  are 

aware,  of  course,  that  I  manage  my  own  estate." 

Rudin  inclined  his  head. 

"  Yes,  I  do  it  myself,"  went  on  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna.  "  I  do  not  introduce  any  foreign  non- 
sense ;  I  hold  to  my  own  way, — the  Russian  way, 
— and  matters,  as  you  see,  appear  to  proceed  not 
altogether  badly,"  she  added,  with  a  circular 
movement  of  her  hand. 

"  I   have   always   been   convinced,"   remarked 

67 


RUDIN 

Uruliii,  courteously,  "  of  the  extreme  injustice  of 
those  people  who  tleny  that  women  have  prac- 
tical sense." 

Diirya   Mikhailovna   smiled   pleasantly. 

"  Vou  are  very  condescending,"  she  said; 
"  hut  \\hat  in  the  world  was  it  that  I  wanted 
to  say?  What  were  we  talking  about?  Yes! 
About  Lezhnyoff.  I  have  business  with  him 
in  regard  to  our  boundary  lines.  I  have  in- 
vited him  to  my  house  several  times,  and  I 
am  even  expecting  him  to-day;  but  he  does 
not  come,  God  knows  why  ...  he  is  such  a  queer 
fellow^!  " 

The  portiere  was  gently  parted,  and  the  but- 
ler entered,  a  man  of  lofty  stature,  grey-haired 
and  bald,  clad  in  a  black  dress-suit,  a  white  neck- 
tie, and  a  w^hite  waistcoat. 

"  What  dost  thou  want? "  inquired  Darya 
IMikhailovna,  and,  turning  slightly  toward  Ru- 
din,  she  added  in  an  undertone,  "  n'est  ce  pas, 
comme  il  ressemhle  a  Canning?  " 

"  ISIikliailo  ^likhailitch  Lezhnyoff  has  ar- 
rived," announced  the  butler.  "  Do  you  com- 
mand that  he  be  received?  " 

"  Akli,  good  heavens!"  cried  Darya  Mikliai- 
lovna;  "  speak  of  the  devil!    Ask  him  in." 

The  butler  withdrew. 

"He's  such  a  queer  fellow;  he  has  come  at 
last,  but  inopportunely.  He  has  interrupted  our 
chat." 

08 


RUDIX 

Riidin  rose  from  his  seat,  but  Darva  ^Nlikhai- 
lovna  stopped  him. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  We  can  talk  in  your 
presence.  And  I  wish  to  have  you  define  him, 
as  you  did  PigasofF.  Wlien  you  speak — vous 
gravez  comme  avec  tin  hurin.     Stay." 

Riidin  was  about  to  say  something,  but 
changed  his  mind  and  remained. 

^likliailo  ]MikIiaihtch,  with  whom  the  reader 
is  already  acquainted,  entered  the  boudoir.  He 
wore  the  same  grey  surtout,  in  his  hands  he 
held  the  same  old  cap.  He  bowed  with  com- 
posure to  Darya  ^Nlikhailovna,  and  approached 
the  tea-table. 

"  At  last  you  have  done  us  the  honour  to  come 
to  us.  Monsieur  LezhnyofF!"  said  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna.  "  Pray  take  a  seat.  You  are  acquainted, 
I  hear,"  she  continued,  pointing  to  Rudin. 

Lezhnyoif  glanced  at  Rudin,  and  smiled  in  a 
rather  singular  manner. 

"  I  do  know  iMr.  Rudin,"  he  said,  with  a  slight 
inclination. 

"  We  were  at  the  university  together,"  re- 
marked Rudin,  in  a  low  tone,  and  dropped  his 
eyes. 

"  And  we  met  afterward,"  said  Lezhnyoff, 
coldly. 

Darya  Mikhailovna  stared  at  both  of  them 
in  considerable  surprise,  and  invited  Lezhnyoff 
to  be  seated. 

69 


RUDIN 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,"  he  began,  "  about 
the  survey^  " 

"  Yes,  about  the  survey;  but  I  wanted  to  see 
you  anyway.  For  we  are  near  neighbours,  and 
ahiiost  related  to  each  other." 

"  I  am  very  much  obhged  to  j''ou,"  returned 
I^ezhnyofF;  "  but,  so  far  as  the  boundary-line  is 
concerned,  yoiu'  manager  and  I  have  settled  that 
matter  definitely ;  I  agree  to  all  his  propositions." 

"  I  knew  that." 

"  Only  he  told  me  that,  without  a  personal 
interview  with  you,  the  papers  could  not  be 
signed." 

"Yes;  I  have  established  that  rule.  By  the 
way,  permit  me  to  ask, — I  believe  all  your  peas- 
ants are  on  quit-rent,  are  they  not?  " 

"  Just  so." 

"  And  you  are  taking  charge  of  the  boundary- 
line  matter  yourself?     That  is  praiseworthy." 

LezhnyoiF  made  no  reply  for  a  moment. 

"  So  I  have  presented  myself  for  the  personal 
interview,"  he  said. 

Darya  ^likhailovna  laughed, 

"  I  see  that  you  have  presented  yourself.  You 
say  that  in  a  tone  as  though.  .  .  You  must  have 
been  extremely  unwilling  to  come  to  me." 

"  I  go  nowhere,"  returned  Lezhnyoff,  phleg- 
maticallv. 

"  Nowhere?  But  you  go  to  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna's?" 

70 


RUDIX 

"  I  have  known  her  brother  for  a  long  time.'* 

"  Her  brother!    However,  I  force  no  one.  .  .  . 

But,   pardon  me,   ]MikIiailo   jNIikliaihtch,   I   am 

older  than  you  and  may  lecture  you  a  little ;  what 

makes  vou  avoid  society  like  a  solitary  wolf?    Or 

»  */  ^ 

is  it  my  house,  in  particular,  that  does  not  please 
you?    Am  I  displeasing  to  you?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  you,  Darya  ^Nlikhailovna,  and 
therefore  you  cannot  be  displeasing  to  me.  Your 
house  is  very  fine;  but  I  will  confess  to  you 
frankly  that  I  do  not  like  to  stand  on  ceremony, 
and  I  do  not  j^ossess  a  decent  dress-suit;  I  have 
no  gloves;  and,  moreover,  I  do  not  belong  to 
your  circle  in  society." 

"  By  birth,  by  education,  you  do  belong  to  it, 
^Nlikhailo  ]Mikliailitch! — vous  etes  des  notres." 

"  Set  birth  and  education  aside,  Darya  INIikliai- 
lovna!    That  is  not  the  point.  .  .  " 

"  A  man  should  live  with  men,  Mikhailo 
Mikhailitch!  AVhat  pleasure  do  you  find  in  sit- 
ting, like  Diogenes,  in  a  cask?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  he  was  very  comfortable 
there;  and,  in  the  second  place,  how  do  you  know 
that  I  do  not  live  with  men?  " 

Darya  ^Slikhailovna  bit  her  lip. 

"  That  is  another  matter.  All  that  is  left  for 
me  to  do  is  to  regret  that  I  was  not  considered 
worthy  to  fall  into  the  number  of  people  with 
whom  you  consort." 

"  ^Monsieur    Lezhnyoff,"    interposed    Ri'idin, 

71 


RUDIN 

"  appears  to  exaggerate  a  very  laiulable  senti- 
ment— love  of  liberty." 

lAV-hnyoil'  made  no  reply,  and  merely  glanced 
at  Ki'idin.     A  brief  pause  ensued. 

"  So  then,  madam,"  began  Lezbnyoff,  rising, 
"  I  may  regard  our  affair  as  completed,  and  tell 
your  manager  to  send  me  the  documents." 

"  You  may  .  .  .  although,  I  must  confess,  you 
are  so  unamiable  .  .  .  that  I  ought  to  refuse." 

"  But,  you  see,  this  survey  is  far  more  advan- 
tageous for  you  than  for  me." 

Darya  ]Mikhailovna  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  You  are  not  willing  even  to  breakfast  with 
me? "  she  asked. 

"  I  thank  you  sincerely.  I  never  breakfast,  and 
I  am  in  haste  to  get  home." 

Darya  JNIikhailovna  rose. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you,"  she  said,  as  she 
walked  to  the  window.    "  I  dare  not  detain  you." 

LezhnyofF  began  to  take  leave. 
^    *'  Good-bye,    Monsieur    Lezhnyoff !      Pardon 
me  for  having  disturbed  you." 

"  Not  at  all,  I  assure  you,"  returned  Lezh- 
nyofF, and  withdrew. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that?  "  inquired  Da- 
rya Mikhailovna  of  Rudin.  "  I  had  heard  that 
he  was  an  eccentric  person,  but  this  passes  all 
bounds." 

"  He  is  suffering  from  the  same  malady  as 
Pigasoff ,"  said  Rudin—  "  from  a  desire  to  be 

72 


RUDIX 

original.  PigasofF  feigns  to  be  a  jNIephisto- 
pheles,  this  one  a  cynic.  In  all  this  there  is 
much  egotism,  much  self-conceit,  and  little  truth, 
little  love.  You  see,  there  is  a  calculation,  of  a 
sort,  in  this  also ;  a  man  has  donned  a  mask  of  in- 
difference and  laziness,  saying  to  himself:  '  Per- 
chance, some  one  will  think,  "  There  's  that  man 
— how  many  talents  he  has  wasted !  "  '  But  when 
you  come  to  look  more  closely,  he  possesses  no 
talents  at  all!" 

"  Et  de  deux! "  said  Darya  ^Mildiailovna. 
"  You  are  a  terrible  man  at  definitions.  One  can- 
not hide  from  you." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  .  .  .  said  Riidin.  "  How- 
ever," he  went  on,  "  to  tell  the  truth,  I  ought  not 
to  talk  about  LezhnyofF;  I  loved  him, — loved 
him  as  a  friend, — but  later  on,  in  consequence  of 
various  misunderstandings.  .  .  " 

"  You  quarrelled?  " 

"  No.  But  we  parted — and  parted,  appar- 
ently, forever." 

"  Exactly  so.  I  noticed  that  during  the  whole 
of  his  visit  you  did  not  seem  to  be  quite  your- 
self. .  .  But  1  am  very  gratefid  to  you  for  this 
morning.  I  have  passed  the  time  in  an  extremely 
agreeable  manner.  But  I  must  not  abuse  your 
kindness.  I  will  release  you  until  breakfast,  and 
will  go  and  attend  to  business  myself.  My  secre- 
tary— you  have  seen  him — Coiistaiitin,  c'cst  liii 
qui  est  man  secretaire — must  be  already  waiting 

7;i 


RUDIN 

for  me.  I  recommend  him  to  your  favour;  he 
is  a  very  fine,  very  ohhging  young  man,  and  is 
in  perfect  raptures  over  you.  Farewell  for  a 
Avliile,  chcr  Dmitry  Nikolaitch!  How  grateful 
I  am  to  tlie  Earon  for  having  introduced  you  to 
me!  "  And  Darya  INIikliailovna  offered  her  hand 
to  Kudin.  He  first  pressed  it,  then  raised  it  to 
his  lips,  and  went  out  into  the  music-room,  and 
from  the  music-room  to  the  verandah.  On  the 
verandah  he  encountered  Natalya. 


74 


Darya  ^Mikhailo^^^a's  daughter,  Natalya 
Alexyeevna,  might  not  strike  one  as  pleasing  at 
first  sight.  She  had  not  yet  completed  her 
growth,  was  thin  and  swarthy,  and  held  herself 
in  rather  a  stooping  attitude.  But  her  features 
were  beautiful  and  regular,  although  too  large 
for  a  girl  of  seventeen.  Especially  fine  was  her 
pure  and  smooth  forehead  above  slender  brows 
which  seemed  to  have  been  broken  apart  in  the 
middle.  She  spoke  little,  but  listened  and  looked 
attentively,  almost  insistently,  as  though  she 
wished  to  account  to  herself  for  everything. 
She  often  remained  motionless,  witli  drooping 
hands,  and  meditated;  on  her  countenance,  at 
siicli  times,  the  inward  travail  of  thought  was. 
expressed.  A  barely  perceptible  smile  made  its 
ai)pearance  of  a  sudden  on  her  lips  and  van- 
ished ;  her  large,  dark  eyes  were  slowly  raised.  .  .  . 
"  Quavez-vous? "  Mile.  Boncourt  would  ask 
lier,  and  would  begin  to  cliide  her,  saying  that 
it  was  not  j^i'oper  for  a  young  girl  to  meditate 
and  assume  an  air  of  abstraction.  But  Na- 
talya  was  not  a])stracted;  on  the  contrary,  she 
studied   diligently;   she   read   and   worked   will- 

75 


KUDIN 

ingly.  She  felt  deeply  and  strongly,  but  se- 
cretly; even  in  her  ehildhood  she  had  rarely 
cried,  and  now  she  rarely  even  sighed,  and  only 
turned  slightly  pale  when  anything  annoyed 
her.  Her  mother  considered  her  a  good-tem- 
pered, sensible  young  girl,  called  her,  jestingly, 
"Man  huunctc  homme  de  /die"  but  enter- 
tained none  too  high  an  opinion  as  to  her  mental 
abilities.  "  ]My  Natasha,  fortunately,  is  cold," 
she  was  wont  to  say;  "she  does  not  take  after 
me  .  .  so  much  the  better.  She  will  be  happy." 
Darya  ^Mikhailovna  was  in  error.  However, 
very  few  mothers  imderstand  their  daughters. 
Natalya  loved  Darya  JNIildiailovna,  and  did  not 
entirely  trust  her. 

"  Thou  hast  nothing  to  hide  from  me,"  Darya 
Mikhailovna  once  said  to  her,  "  otherwise  thou 
wouldst  hide  it;  apparently,  thou  thinkest  for 
thyself.  ..." 

Natalya  looked  her  mother  in  the  eye,  and 
said  to  herself:  "  Why  shouldn't  one  think  for 
herself?  " 

When  Rudin  met  her  on  the  verandah  she  had 
gone  into  the  house,  in  company  with  Mile.  Bon- 
court,  to  put  on  her  hat  and  go  into  the  garden. 
Her  morning  occupations  were  already  finished. 
They  had  ceased  to  treat  Natalya  like  a  little 
girl;  for  a  long  time  past  Mile.  Boncourt  had 
not  given  her  any  lessons  in  mythology  and 
geography,  but  Natalya  was  bound  to  read  his- 

76 


RUDIN 

torical  books  and  other  edifying  works  every 
morning  in  her  presence.  Darya  IMikliailovna 
selected  them,  apparently  in  consonance  with  a 
special  system  of  her  own.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
she  simply  handed  over  to  Xatalya  everything 
which  the  French  bookseller  in  Petersburg  sent 
her,  with  the  exception,  of  course,  of  the  novels 
of  Dumas  fils,  and  Co.  These  novels  Darya 
]Mikliailovna  read  herself.  ]Mlle.  Boncourt 
glared  through  her  spectacles  with  particular 
severity  and  acidity  when  Xatalya  was  perusing 
historical  books.  According  to  the  ideas  of  the 
old  Frenchwoman,  all  history  was  filled  with  un- 
permissible  things,  although  she  herself,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  was  acquainted  with  Cambyses 
alone  among  the  great  men  of  antiquity;  and, 
among  those  of  recent  times,  only  with  Louis 
XIV  and  Napoleon,  whom  she  could  not  abide. 
But  Xatalya  also  read  books  whose  very  exist- 
ence ]Mlle.  Boncourt  did  not  suspect:  she  knew 
the  whole  of  Pushkin  by  heart.  .  .  . 

Xatalya  blushed  slightly  on  encountering  Rii- 
din. 

"  Are  you  going  for  a  stroll?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  Yes.    We  are  going  into  the  garden." 

"  ]\Iay  I  go  with  you?  " 

Xattilya  glanced  at  Mile.  Boncourt. 

"  Main  ccrtahicmcnt,  monsieur,  avec  plaisu'/* 
the  old  spinster  made  haste  to  say. 

Riidin  took  his  hat  and  went  witli  them. 

77 


RUDIN 

xVt  first  Natiilya  felt  awkward  at  walking  by 
the  side  of  Uutliii  on  one  path;  afterwards  she 
was  more  at  her  ease.  He  began  to  question  her 
with  regard  to  her  oeeupations,  and  as  to  how  she 
liked  the  eountry.  She  replied,  not  without 
timidity,  but  without  that  hurried  bashfulness 
M-hieh  is  frecpiently  passed  off  and  mistaken  for 
jnodestv.     Her  heart  beat  fast. 

"You  do  not  get  bored  in  the  country?"  in- 
quired Rudin,  taking  her  in  with  a  sidelong 
glance. 

"  How  can  one  be  bored  in  the  country?  I  am 
very  glad  that  we  are  here.  I  am  very  happy 
here." 

"  You  are  happy!  .  .  .  That  is  a  great  word. 
However,  that  is  comprehensible:  you  are 
young." 

Rudin  uttered  this  last  word  in  a  rather  strange 
manner,  not  precisely  as  though  he  envied  Na- 
tasha, nor  yet  precisely  as  though  he  pitied  her. 

"  Yes!  Youth!  "  he  added.  "  The  whole  aim 
of  science  is  consciously  to  attain  to  that  which 
is  bestowed  gratuitously." 

Natalya  gazed  attentively  at  Riidin;  she  did 
not  understand  him. 

"  I  have  spent  this  whole  morning  conversing 
with  your  mother,"  he  went  on ;  "  she  is  a  re- 
markable woman.  I  understand  why  all  our 
poets  have  prized  her  friendship.  And  are  you 
fond  of  poetry?  "  he  added,  after  a  brief  silence. 


RUDIN 

"  He  is  putting  me  through  an  examination," 
thought  Xatalya,  and  said:  "Yes,  I  am  very 
fond  of  it." 

"  Poetry  is  the  language  of  the  gods.  I  my- 
self love  verses.  But  there  is  no  poetry  in  or- 
dinary verses;  it  is  disseminated  everywhere,  it 

is  all  around  us Look  at  these  trees,  at 

this  skv — from  every  direction  emanate  life  and 
beauty;  and  where  life  and  beauty  are,  there 
poetry  is  also." 

"  Let  us  sit  down  here,  on  this  bench,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  That 's  right.  Somehow  or  other,  it 
seems  to  me  that  when  you  shall  have  got  ac- 
customed to  me  "  (and  he  looked  into  her  face 
M'ith  a  smile),  "  we  shall  become  friends.  What 
do  you  think?  " 

"  He  is  treating  me  like  a  little  girl,"  thought 
Xatalya  again,  and,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  she 
asked  him  whether  he  intended  to  remain  long 
in  the  country. 

"  All  the  summer,  the  autumn,  and  perhaps  the 
n  inter  also.  As  you  know,  I  am  far  from  being 
a  wealthy  man;  my  affairs  are  in  disorder,  and, 
moreover,  I  am  tired  of  roaming  about  from 
place  to  place.    It  is  time  to  rest." 

Natiilya  was  surprised. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  think  it  is  time  for 
you  to  rest?  "  she  asked  him  timidly. 

Kudin  turned  his  face  toward  Natalya. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

79 


RUDIN 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  slie  returned,  with  some  coii' 
fusion,  "  that  others  may  rest;  but  you  .  .  .  you 
ought  to  toil,  to  try  to  be  of  use.  Who,  if  not 
you.  .  .  ." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  flattering  opinion," 
Kudin  interrupted  her.  "  It  is  easy  to  say  .... 
'  to  be  of  use.'  "  (He  passed  his  hand  across  his 
face.)  "To  be  of  use!"  he  repeated.  "Even 
if  I  bore  within  me  a  firm  conviction  how  I 
might  be  of  use, — even  if  I  had  faith  in  my 
powers, — where  am  I  to  find  sincere,  sympathetic 
souls?" 

And  Rudin  waved  his  hand  in  so  hopeless  a 
manner,  and  drooped  his  head  so  sorrowfully, 
that  Natalya  involuntarily  asked  herself: — Was 
it  really  his  rapturous  speeches,  breathing  forth 
hope,  which  she  had  listened  to  on  the  preceding 
evening  ? 

"  But  no,"  he  added,  suddenly  shaking  his  long 
mane;  "this  is  nonsense,  and  you  are  right.  I 
thank  you,  Xatalya  Alexyeevna,  I  thank  you 
sincerely."  (Natalya  decidedly  did  not  knov/ 
what  he  was  thanking  her  for. )  "  That  one  word 
of  yours  has  recalled  me  to  my  duty,  has  pointed 

out  to  me  my  path Yes,  I  must  act.     I 

must  not  hide  my  talent,  if  I  possess  it;  I  must 
not  waste  my  powers  in  empty  chatter,  useless 
chatter,  in  mere  words.  .  .  ." 

And  his  words  flowed  forth  in  a  stream.  He 
talked  very  finely,  fervently,  convincingly,  about 

80 


RUDIN 

the  disgrace  of  cowardice  and  laziness,  about  the 
indispensability  of  doing  deeds.  He  showered 
reproaches  on  himself,  demonstrated  that  to  ar- 
gue beforehand  about  what  one  wants  to  do  is 
as  injurious  as  to  stick  a  pin  into  a  fruit  over- 
flowing with  juice, — that  this  was  only  a  vain 
waste  of  powers  and  of  juices.  He  declared 
that  there  is  no  noble  thought  which  does  not 
win  sympathy,  that  only  those  people  remain 
misunderstood  who  either  do  not  know  them- 
selves what  they  wish  or  are  not  worth  under- 
standing. He  talked  for  a  long  time,  and 
wound  up  by  thanking  Xatalya  Alexyeevna  once 
more,  and  quite  unexpectedly  pressed  her  hand, 
saying:  "  You  are  a  very  beautiful,  noble 
being! " 

This  liberty  startled  ]Mlle.  Boncourt,  who,  in 
spite  of  her  forty  years'  residence  in  Russia,  un- 
derstood Russian  with  difficulty,  and  merely  ad- 
mired the  beautiful  swiftness  and  fluency  of  the 
language  in  Riidin's  mouth.  However,  in  her 
eyes  he  was  something  in  the  nature  of  a  virtuoso 
or  an  artist;  and  from  that  sort  of  people,  ac- 
cording to  her  ideas,  it  was  imjwssible  to  demand 
the  observance  of  decorum. 

She  rose,  and,  abruptly  adjusting  her  go^vTi, 
announced  to  Xatalya  that  it  was  time  to  go 
home,  that  IMovsicur  Volinsoff  (that  was  what 
she  called  Volyntzeff )  was  intending  to  come 
for  breakfast. 

81 


RUDIN 

*'  Yes,  and  there  he  is!  "  she  added,  glancing 
down  one  of  the  avenues  wliich  led  to  the  house. 

In  fact,  A^)lyntzeft'  made  his  appearance  a 
short  distance  away. 

He  approached  with  an  undecided  gait,  bowed 
to  them  all  wliile  still  at  a  distance,  and,  address- 
ing Xatalya  with  a  pained  expression  on  his  face, 
he  said: 

"  Ah!    Are  you  taking  a  stroll?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Natasha,  "  we  are  just  going 
home." 

"  Ah!  "  ejaculated  VolyntzefF.  "  Well,  let  us 
start." 

And  they  all  set  off  for  the  house. 

"How  is  your  sister's  health?"  Rudin  asked 
VohhitzefF,  in  a  rather  peculiarly  caressing 
voice.  He  had  been  very  amiable  to  him  on  the 
preceding  evening  also. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you.     She  is  well.     Perhaps 

she  will  come  hither  to-day I  think  you 

were  discussing  something  when  I  came  up." 

"  Yes.  Xatalya  Alexyeevna  and  I  had  been 
having  a  chat.  She  said  a  word  to  me  which  has 
had  a  powerful  effect  upon  me."  .  .  . 

Volyntzeff  did  not  inquire  what  the  word  was, 
and  all  returned,  in  profound  silence,  to  the 
house  of  Darva  Mikhailovna. 

Before    dinner    the    salon    was    formed    again. 
But  Pigasoff  did  not  come.     Rudin  did  not  ap- 

82 


RUDIN 

pear  to  advantage ;  he  kept  making  Pandalevsky 
play  selections  from  Beethoven.  VolyntzeiF 
maintained  silence  and  stared  at  the  floor.  Xa- 
talya  clung  persistently  to  her  mother's  side,  now 
immersed  in  thought,  now  devoting  herself  to 
her  work.  BasistofF  never  took  his  eyes  from 
Riidin,  in  the  momentarj'-  expectation  that  the 
latter  would  say  something  clever.  Three  hours 
passed  thus,  rather  monotonously.  Alexandra 
Pavlovna  did  not  come  to  dinner,  and  Volyntzeif , 
as  soon  as  they  rose  from  table,  immediately  or- 
dered his  calash  to  be  brought  round,  and  slipped 
away  without  taking  leave  of  any  one. 

He  felt  heavy  at  heart.  He  had  long  loved 
Xatalya,  and  was  always  on  the  verge  of  making 

her  an  offer  of  marriage She  favoured 

him, — but  her  heart  remained  calm ;  he  perceived 
that  clearly.  He  had  no  hope  of  inspiring  in  her 
a  more  tender  sentiment,  and  was  only  awaiting 
the  moment  when  she  should  become  thoroughly 
accustomed  to  him — should  draw  nearer  to 
him.  What  could  have  perturbed  him?  What 
change  had  he  observed  during  those  two  days? 
Xatalya  had  treated  him  exactly  as  hereto- 
fore  

AVhether  his  soul  was  choked  with  the  thought 
that,  perhaps,  he  did  not  understand  Xatalya's 
character  at  all,  that  she  was  more  alien  to  him 
than  he  had  imagined,  whether  jealousy  had 
awakened  within  bim,  whether  he  felt  a  dim  fore- 

83 


RUDIN 

boding  of  something  evil,  ....  at  all  events,  he 
sutlVrcd.  argue  with  himself  as  he  might. 

\\'hen  he  entered  his  sister's  house,  LezhnyofF 
was  sitting  with  her. 

"  ^^'hat  made  you  come  home  so  early?  "  asked 
Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  Because — I  was  bored." 

"Is  Kudin  there?" 

"  Yes." 

Volyntzeif  flung  aside  his  cap  and  sat  down. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  turned  to  him  with 
vivacity : 

"  Please,  Seryozha,  help  me  to  convince  this 
obstinate  man "  (she  pointed  at  LezhnyofF) 
"  that  Riidin  is  remarkably  clever  and  eloquent." 

Volyntzeff  muttered  something. 

"  Why,  I  'm  not  disputing  your  statement  in 
the  least,"  began  Lezhnyoff .  "  I  have  no  doubt 
whatever  as  to  JNIr.  Rudin's  cleverness  and  elo- 
quence; all  I  say  is  that  I  do  not  like  him." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  sav  that  vou  have  seen 
him?  "  asked  Volyntzeff. 

"  I  saw  him  this  morning  at  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna's.  You  see,  he  is  now  her  grand  vizier. 
The  time  will  come  when  she  will  part  with  him, — 
Pandalevsky  is  the  only  one  with  whom  she  will 
not  part, — but  he  is  reigning  at  present.  Saw 
him?  Of  course  I  did!  There  he  sat,  and  she 
pointed  me  out  to  him.  '  Look,  my  dear  sir,' 
says  she,  '  see  what  eccentric  fellows  we  grow 
here.'     I  'm  not  a  stud-horse — I  'm  not  accus- 

84 


RUDIN 

tomed  to  be  trotted  out  on  show,  so  I  took  and 
marched  off." 

"  But  why  wast  thou  at  her  house?  " 

"  About  the  survey  of  the  boundarv-hne ;  but 
that 's  nonsense.  She  simply  wanted  to  have  a 
look  at  my  physiognomy.  She  's  a  fine  lady — 
every  one  knows  what  that  means!  " 

"  His  superiority  offends  you.  That 's  what 's 
the  matter,"  said  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  M^ith  ar- 
dour. "  That  is  what  you  cannot  pardon  him. 
But  I  am  convinced  that,  in  addition  to  his  mind, 
he  must  also  have  an  excellent  heart.  Just  look 
at  his  eyes  when  he  .  .  .  ." 

"  '  Of  lofty  uprightness  he  prates,'  "  .  .  .  .  in- 
terposed Lezhnyoff. 

"  You  will  provoke  me,  and  I  shall  begin  to 
cry.  I  regret,  from  my  soul,  that  I  did  not  go 
to  Darya  Mikhailovna's,  and  remained  here  with 
you.  You  are  not  worthy  of  it.  Do  stop  teasing 
me,"  she  added,  in  a  plaintive  voice.  "  You  had 
better  tell  me  about  his  youth." 

"  About  Riidin's  voutli?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly.  You  know,  you  told  me  that 
you  knew  him  well,  and  had  been  acquainted  with 
liim  for  a  long  time." 

Lezhnyoff  rose  and  paced  the  room. 

"  Yes,"  he  began;  "  I  do  know  him  well.  You 
want  me  to  tell  you  about  his  youth?  Very  well. 
He  was  born  in  T  .  .  .  .,  of  poor  parents  of  tlie 
landed  gentry  class.  His  father  soon  died.  He 
was  left  alone  with  his  mother.     She  was  an  ex- 

85 


RUDIX 

treniely  kind-hearted  woman,  and  was  perfectly 
inl'atuated  witli  liini;  she  subsisted  on  nothing  but 
dried  oatmeal,  and  used  all  tlie  little  money  she 
possessed  on  him.  He  received  his  education  in 
Moscow,  first  at  the  expense  of  some  uncle  or 
other,  and  later  on,  when  he  was  grown  and  got 
his  feathers,  at  the  expense  of  a  certain  wealthy 
petty  prince  with  whom  he  had  sniffed  up  some 
sort  of  understanding  ....  well,  pardon  me,  I 
will  not  do  it  again!  ....  with  whom  he  had 
made  friends.  Then  he  entered  the  university. 
I  knew  him  at  the  university,  and  became  very 
intimate  with  him.  Concerning  our  manner  of 
life  together  at  that  epoch  I  will  speak  with  you 
at  some  future  time.  At  present  I  cannot.  Then 
he  went  abroad " 

Lezhnyoff  continued  to  stride  up  and  down 
the  room ;  Alexandra  Pavlovna  followed  him  with 
her  eyes. 

"  From  abroad,"  he  went  on,  "  Riidin  wrote  to 
his  mother  very  rarely,  and  never  visited  her  but 

once,  for  about  ten  days The  old  woman 

died  in  his  absence — in  the  arms  of  strangers;  but 
until  the  verv  moment  of  her  death  she  never  took 
her  ej'-es  from  his  portrait.     I  used  to  call  on  her 

when  I  lived  in  T She  was  a  good  woman, 

and  extremely  hospitable.  She  loved  her  Mitya 
passionately.       Gentlemen    of    the    Petchorin  ^ 

1  The  hero  of  L^rraontofTs  famous  novel:  "A  Hero  of 
Our  Times." — Tkanslatou. 

86 


RUDIX 

school  will  tell  you  that  we  always  love  those 
who  themselves  possess  very  little  capacity  for 
loving;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  all  mothers  love 
their  children,  especially  those  who  are  absent. 
Then  I  met  Rudin  abroad.  There  a  gentlewo- 
man had  tacked  herself  on  to  him — one  of  our 
Russian  women,  a  sort  of  blue-stocking,  no  longer 
either  young  or  pretty,  as  is  fitting  for  a  blue- 
stocking. He  bothered  about  with  her  for  quite 
a  lonsf  time,  and  then  abandoned  her,  or,  no  ...  . 
what  am  I  saying?  ....  pardon  me! — she  aban- 
doned him.     And  then  I  dropped  him.     That  is 

all." 

Lezhnyoff  relapsed  into  silence,  passed  his 
hand  across  his  brow,  and  sank  into  an  arm-chair 
as  though  fatigued. 

"  Do  you  know  what,  ^Mikliailo  ^Mikhailitch?  " 
began  Alexandra  Pavlovna.  "  I  perceive  that 
you  are  a  malicious  man;  really,  you  are  no  bet- 
ter than  PigasofF.  I  am  convinced  that  every- 
thing you  have  said  is  true,  that  you  have  invented 
nothing,  and  yet  in  what  an  unfavourable  light 
you  have  represented  it  all!  That  poor  old 
woman,  her  devotion,  her  lonely  death!  That 
lady!  ....  What  is  the  use  of  all  that?  .... 
Do  you  know  that  it  is  ])ossible  to  depict  the  life 
of  the  best  of  men  in  such  colours,  and,  without 
adding  anything,  observe,  that  any  one  would  be 
horrified!  Really,  that  also  is  calumny,  in  its 
way." 

87 


RUDIX 

Lezhnyoff  rose,  and  again  began  to  pace  the 
room. 

"  I  had  not  the  slightest  desire  to  make  you 
feel  horrified,  Alexandra  Piivlovna,"  he  said  at 
last.  "  I  am  not  a  calumniator.  However,"  he 
added,  after  a  little  reflection,  "  there  really  is 
a  certain  amount  of  truth  in  what  you  say.  I 
have  not  calumniated  Rudin;  but — who  knows? 
— perhaps  he  has  succeeded  in  effecting  a  change 
in  himself  since  then;  j)erha2:)s  I  have  been  unjust 
toward  him." 

"  Ah!  There,  you  see!  ....  So  now  promise 
me  that  you  will  renew  your  acquaintance  with 
him,  that  you  will  learn  to  know  him  well,  and 
then  you  shall  tell  me  your  definitive  opinion  of 
him." 

"  So  be  it.  .  .  .  But  why  are  you  silent,  Ser- 
gyei  Pavlitch?  " 

VolyntzefF  started  and  raised  his  head,  as 
though  he  had  been  awakened  from  sleep. 

"  What  is  there  for  me  to  say?  I  do  not  know 
him.    And,  besides,  my  head  aches  to-day." 

"  Thou  really  art  rather  pale  to-day,"  re- 
marked Alexandra  Pavlovna;  "  art  thou  well?  " 

"  jNIy  head  aches,"  repeated  Volyntzeff ,  and 
left  the  room. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  and  Lezhnyoff  gazed  af- 
ter him  and  exchanged  a  glance,  but  said  nothing 
to  each  other.  What  was  going  on  in  Volyn- 
tzeff's  heart  was  no  secret  either  to  him  or  to  her. 

88 


VI 

JSIoRE  than  two  months  elapsed.  During  the 
whole  course  of  that  time  Rudin  hardly  left  Da- 
rya ^Nlikliailovna's  house.  She  could  not  get  along 
without  him.  It  had  become  a  necessity  for  her 
to  talk  to  him  about  herself,  to  listen  to  his  argu- 
ments. One  day  he  made  an  attempt  to  depart, 
on  the  pretext  that  all  his  money  was  exhausted. 
She  gave  him  five  hundred  rubles.  He  also  bor- 
rowed a  couple  of  hundred  rubles  from  Volyn- 
tzefF.  Pigasoff  called  upon  Darya  ^Nlikhailovna 
much  more  rarely  than  before.  Riidin  over- 
whelmed him  with  his  presence.  However,  Piga- 
soff was  not  the  only  one  to  experience  this  sense 
of  being  overwhelmed. 

"  I  don't  like  that  clever  fellow,"  he  was  wont 
to  say;  "he  expresses  himself  unnaturally — for 
all  the  world  like  a  personage  in  a  Russian  novel. 

He  will  say  '  I,'  and  pause  with  emotion 

'  I,'  says  he, '  I  .  .  .  .'  He  always  uses  such  long 
\\'ords.  If  you  sneeze,  he  will  immediately  begin 
to  demonstrate  to  you  precisely  why  you  sneezed 

and  why  you  did  not  cough If  lie  praises 

you,  it 's  exactly  as  tlioiigh  he  were  promoting 

you  in  rank He  will  begin  to  revile  him- 

89 


RUDIN 

self,  and  will  besmear  himself  with  mud.  Well, 
voii  think  to  yourself,  now  he  will  not  look  at 
God's  daylight.  Not  a  bit  of  it;  he  will  even  get 
jolly,  as  though  he  had  been  treating  himself  to 
bitter  vodka." 

Pandalevsky  was  afraid  of  Riidin,  and  courted 
him  cautiously.  VolyntzefF  found  himself  on 
strange  terms  with  him.  Rudin  called  him  a 
knight,  and  lauded  him  to  his  face  and  behind 
his  back ;  but  Volyntzeff  could  not  bring  himself 
to  like  Rudin,  and  on  every  occasion  experienced 
an  involuntary  impatience  and  vexation  when  the 
latter  undertook,  in  his  presence,  to  discuss  his 
merits.  "  Is  n't  he  laughing  at  me?  "  he  thought, 
and  his  heart  stirred  witliin  him  with  animosity. 
Volyntzeff  tried  to  master  his  feelings,  but  he 
was  jealous  of  him  and  Natalya.  And  Rudin 
himself,  although  he  always  greeted  Volyntzeff 
noisily,  although  he  called  him  a  knight  and 
borrowed  money  from  him,  could  hardly  be  said 
to  be  well  disposed  toward  him.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  define  precisely  what  these  two  men 
felt  when,  as  they  shook  each  other's  hands  in 
friendly  wise,  they  gazed  into  each  other's 
eyes 

BasistofF  continued  to  worship  at  Riidin's 
shrine,  and  to  catch  every  word  of  his  on  the 
fly.  Rudin  paid  very  little  attention  to  him.  It 
happened,  once,  that  he  spent  a  whole  morning 
with  him,  discussed  with  him  the  most  important 

00 


RUDIX 

world-questions  and  -problems,  and  aroused  in 
him   the   most   lively   enthusiasm;   but   then   he 

dropped  him It  was  obvious  that  in  words 

only  did  he  seek  pure  and  devoted  souls.  With 
LezhnyofF,  who  had  begun  to  frequent  Darya 
Mikliailovna's  house,  Riidin  did  not  even  enter 
into  argument,  and  seemed  to  shun  him.  Lezh- 
nyofF also  treated  him  coldly,  and  had  not  yet 
pronounced  a  definitive  opinion  about  him,  which 
greatly  disturbed  Alexandra  Pavlovna.  She 
bowed  down  before  Rudin;  but  she  also  trusted 
Lezhnvoff .     Every  one  in  Darva  ^Nlikliailovna's 

»  »'  * 

house  submitted  to  Rudin's  whims;  his  slightest 
wish  was  fulfilled.  The  order  of  the  daily  occu- 
pations depended  upon  him.  Not  a  single  partie 
de  plaisir  was  made  up  without  him.  However, 
lie  was  not  very  fond  of  all  sorts  of  sudden  trips 
and  projects,  and  took  part  in  them  as  adults 
take  part  in  children's  games,  with  affable  and 
somewhat  bored  benevolence.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  entered  into  everything:  he  discussed  with 
Darya  Mikliailovna  the  arrangements  about  the 
estate,  the  rearing  of  children,  management  of 
property,  business  affairs  in  general;  he  listened 
to  her  suggestions,  was  not  annoyed  even  by  de- 
tails, proposed  reforms  and  innovations.  Darya 
]\Iikhailovna  went  into  raptures  over  them, — in 
words, — and  there  it  ended.  In  the  matter  of 
managing  her  estate  she  stuck  to  the  counsels  of 
her  steward,  an  elderly,  one-eyed  little  Russian, 

91 


RUDIN 

a  good-natured  and  crafty  knave.  "  Old  things 
are  fat,  young  things  are  lean,"  he  was  wont  to 
say,  grinning  composedly,  and  hlinking  his  single 

eye. 

With  the  exception  of  Darya  ^likhailovna  her- 
self, Riidin  chatted  with  no  one  so  often  or  so 
long  as  with  Natalya.  He  gave  her  hooks  on  the 
sly,  confided  to  her  his  plans,  read  her  the  first 
pages  of  his  projected  articles  and  works.  The 
sense  of  them  frequently  remained  inaccessihle 
to  Natalya.  But  Rudin  did  not  appear  to  trouhle 
liimself  much  about  her  understanding  him,  so 
long  as  she  listened  to  him.  His  intimacy  with 
Natalya  was  not  quite  to  the  taste  of  Darya 
Mikhailovna.  But,  she  thought,  let  her  chatter 
with  him  in  the  country.  She  amuses  him,  like  a 
little  girl.    There  's  no  great  harm  in  it,  and  she 

will  grow  cleverer In  Petersburg  I  will 

change  all  that.  .  .  . 

Darya  Mikhailovna  was  mistaken.  Natalya 
did  not  prattle  like  a  little  girl  with  Rudin;  she 
eagerly  drank  in  his  speeches;  she  tried  to  pene- 
trate their  meaning;  she  submitted  all  her 
thoughts,  her  doubts,  to  his  judgment:  he  was  her 
mentor,  her  guide.  So  far,  only  her  head  was 
seething  ....  but  a  young  head  does  not  seethe 
long  alone.  What  sweet  moments  did  Natalya 
live  through  when,  in  the  park  on  a  bench,  in 
the  light,  transparent  shadows  of  an  ash-tree, 
Rudin  would  begin  to  read  aloud  to  her  Goethe's 

92 


RUDIN 

"  Faust,"  Hoffmann,  or  the  Letters  of  Bettina, 
or  Xovalis,  pausing  constantly  and  explaining 
that  which  seemed  obscure  to  her!  She  spoke,' 
German  badly,  like  nearly  all  of  our  young  la-' 
dies,  but  understood  it  well,  and  Riidin  was  com-  i 
pletely  immersed  in  German  poetry,  in  the  Ger- 
man romantic  and  philosophical  world,  and  drew 
her  after  him  into  those  interdicted  regions. 
Xovel,  very  beautiful,  did  they  lie  outspread  be- 
fore her  attentive  gaze;  from  the  pages  of  the 
book  which  Rudin  held  in  his  hands  wondrous 
images,  new,  brilliant  thoughts,  fairly  poured 
forth  in  tinkling  streams  into  her  soul  and  into 
her  heart,  agitated  by  the  noble  joy  of  grand 
sensations;  the  sacred  spark  of  ecstasy  quietly 
flashed  up  and  grew  into  a  blaze.  .  .  . 

"  Tell  me,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch,"  she  began  one 
day,  as  she  sat  at  the  window  over  her  embroidery- 
frame;  "  you  will  go  to  Petersburg  for  the  win- 
ter, will  you  not?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Rudin,  dropping 
upon  his  knees  the  book  whose  pages  he  was  turn- 
ing over.    "  If  I  collect  the  means,  I  shall  go." 

He  spoke  languidly;  he  felt  weary,  and  had 
remained  indolent  since  the  morning. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  cannot  fail  to  find 
the  means?  " 

Rudin  shook  his  head. 

"  So  it  seems  to  you!  " 

And  he  glanced  significantly  aside. 

98 


RUDIN 

Natiilya  was  on  the  point  of  saying  something, 
but  restrained  herself. 

"  Look,"  began  Riidin,  and  pointed  with  his 
liand  out  of  tlie  window;  "you  see  that  apple- 
tree?  It  has  broken  down  with  the  weight  and 
multitude  of  its  own  fruit.  It  is  the  true  em- 
blem of  genius."  .... 

*'  It  broke  because  it  had  no  support,"  replied 
Natalya. 

"  I  understand  you,  Natalya  Alexyeevna;  but 
it  is  not  so  easy  for  a  man  to  find  that  support." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  sympathy  of  others 
....  in  any  case,  isolation  .  .  .  ." 

Natalya  became  slightly  entangled,  and 
blushed. 

"  And  what  shall  you  do  in  the  country  during 
the  winter?  "  she  hastily  added. 

"  What  shall  I  do?  I  shall  complete  my  great 
article,  you  know,  about  the  tragic  in  life  and 
in  art, — I  narrated  to  you  the  plan  of  it  day  be- 
fore yesterday, — and  I  shall  send  it  to  you." 

"  And  you  will  print  it?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  not?    For  whom  shall  you  toil?  " 

"  How  about  toiling  for  you?  " 

Natalya  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  That  is  beyond  me,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch!  " 

"  Permit  me  to  ask,  what  is  the  article  about  ?  " 
modestly  inquired  BasistofF,  who  was  sitting  at 
a  distance. 

94 


RUDIX 

"  About  the  tragic  in  life  and  in  art,"  repeated 
Rudin.  "  And  ^Ir.  BasistofF  here  shall  read  it 
also.  However,  I  have  not  quite  got  the  funda- 
mental thought  into  shape  yet.  I  have  not  yet 
rendered  sufficiently  clear  to  myself  the  tragic 
significance  of  love." 

Riidin  gladly  and  frequently  talked  of  love. 
At  first,  at  the  word  "  love  "  Mile.  Boncourt 
started  and  pricked  up  her  ears,  like  an  aged 
regimental  horse  who  hears  a  bugle,  but  later  on 
she  got  used  to  it,  and  only  pursed  up  her  lips 
and  took  snufF  at  intervals. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  remarked  Natalya,  timidly, 
"  that  the  tragic  thing  about  love  is  unhappy 
love." 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  Rudin;  "  that  is,  rather, 

the  comic  side  of  love That  question  must 

be  posed  in  an  entirely  different  manner  .... 
one  must  go  down  deeper Love!  "he  con- 
tinued, "everything  about  it  is  a  mystery:  how 
it  comes,  how  it  develops,  how  it  disappears. 
Xow  it  makes  its  appearance  suddenly,  indubita- 
bly, joyous  as  the  day;  again  it  smoulders  like 
fire  under  the  ashes,  and  makes  its  way  like  a 
flame  in  the  soul,  when  everything  is  already  de- 
stroyed; now  it  creeps  into  the  heart,  like  a  ser- 
pent; again,  it  suddenly  slips  out  of  it 

Yes,  yes;  it  is  a  weighty  question.  Yes,  and  who 
loves  in  our  (hiy,  wlio  dares  to  love?  " 

And  Ru(hn  rchij)sed  into  meditation. 

95 


RUDIN 

*'  Why  have  we  not  seen  Sergyei  Pavlitch  this 
lonj>'  tiiiici' "'  lie  suddenlv  asked. 

Xatiilya  Hushed  up,  and  bent  her  head  over 
her  einbroidery-franie. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  whispered. 

"  What  an  extremely  fine  and  noble  man  he 
is!"  remarked  lliidin,  rising.  "He  is  one  of 
the  very  best  specimens  of  the  genuine  Russian 
nobleman."  ....  . 

^Ille.  Boncourt  gazed  at  him  askance  with  her 
little  French  eyes. 

Rudin  strolled  about  the  room. 

"  Have  you  observed,"  he  asked,  making  a 
sharp  turn  on  his  heels,  "  that  on  the  oak — and 
the  oak  is  a  sturdy  tree — the  old  leaves  fall  off 
only  when  the  young  ones  begin  to  force  their 
way  through  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Natalya,  slowly;  "  I  have  ob- 
served it." 

"  Exactly  the  same  thing  takes  place  with  the 
old  love  in  a  strong  heart;  it  is  already  dead,  but 
it  still  hangs  on;  only  another,  a  new  love,  can 
dislodge  it." 

Natalya  made  no  reply. 

"  What  does  this  mean?  "  she  thought. 

Rudin  stood  still,  shook  his  hair,  and  withdrew. 

And  Natalya  went  to  her  own  room.  For  a 
long  time  she  sat  in  perplexity  on  her  little  bed ; 
for  a  long  time  she  meditated  on  Rudin's  last 
words,  and  suddenly  clasped  her  hands  and  fell 

96 


RUDIX 

to  weeping.  What  she  was  Aveeping  about  God 
only  knows.  She  did  not  know  herself  why  her 
tears  had  flowed  forth  so  suddenly.  She  wiped 
them  away,  but  they  streamed  down  afresh,  like 
water  from  a  spring  which  has  long  been  ac- 
cumulating. 

On  that  same  day  a  conversation  about  Rudin 
took  place,  also,-  between  Alexandra  Pavlovna 
and  I^ezhnyofF.  At  first  he  maintained  an  ob- 
stinate silence,  but  she  was  determined  to  obtain 
a  categorical  answer. 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  "  that  you  do  not  like  Dmitry 
Xikolaitch  any  more  than  before.  I  have  delib- 
erately refrained  from  interrogating  you  hith- 
erto; but  now  you  have  had  an  opportunity  to 
convince  yourself  whether  any  change  has  taken 
place  in  liim,  and  I  wish  to  know  why  you  do  not 
like  him." 

"  Verv  well,"  retorted  LezhnvofF,  with  his 
wonted  coolness;  "  if  you  cannot  endure  the  pres- 
ent state  of  things;  only,  see  here,  you  must  not 
get  angry."  .  .  . 

"  Come,  begin,  begin." 

"  And  you  must  let  me  say  my  say  to  the  end." 

"  A^'ery  well,  very  well;  begin." 

"  Well,  tlien,  ma'am,"  began  LezhnyofF,  sink- 
ing down  slowly  on  the  divan.  "  I  must  inform 
vou  that  I  reallv  do  not  like  Rudin.  He  is  a  clever 


man." 


97 


RtJDIN 

"I  should  think  so!" 

"  He  is  a  strikingly  clever  man,  although,  in 
reality,  frivolous."  .  .  . 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  that!  " 

"  Although,  in  reality,  frivolous,"  repeated 
LezhnyofF;  "but  that's  no  harm;  we  are  all 
frivolous  people.  I  do  not  even  blame  him  for 
being  a  despot  in  soul,  lazy,  not  very  well  in- 
formed." .  .  . 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  clasped  her  hands. 

"Not  very  well  informed!  Riidin!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Xot  very  well  informed,"  repeated  Lezh- 
nyofF, in  precisely  the  same  tone  as  before;  "  he 
is  fond  of  living  at  the  expense  of  others,  he  is 
playing  a  part,  and  so  forth  ....  all  that  is  in 
the  common  order  of  things.  But  the  ugly  thing 
about  it  is  that  he  is  as  cold  as  ice." 

"He,  that  fiery  spirit,  cold!"  interrupted 
Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  Yes,  cold  as  ice,  and  he  knows  it  and  pre- 
tends to  be  fiery.  The  bad  part  of  it  is,"  con- 
tinued I^ezhnyoiF,  gradually  becoming  animated, 
"  that  he  is  playing  a  dangerous  game, — not  dan- 
gerous for  himself,  of  course;  he  would  not  stake 
a  kopek  or  a  hair  on  a  card  himself,  but  others 
stake  their  souls."  .  .  . 

"  Of  whom — of  what  are  you  talking?  I  do 
not  imderstand  you,"  said  Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  The  bad  point  is  that  he  is  not  honest;  for 

08 


RUDIX 

he  is  a  clever  man.  He  must  know  the  worth 
of  his  own  words;  but  he  utters  them  as  tliough 
they  cost  him  something.  He  is  eloquent,  there 
is  no  disputing  that;  only  his  eloquence  is  not 
Russian.  Yes,  and,  in  conclusion,  it  is  pardon- 
able for  a  youth  to  talk  eloquently,  but  at  his 
age  it  is  disgraceful  to  take  pleasure  in  the 
sound  of  his  own  speeches.  It  is  disgraceful  to 
show  off!" 

"  It  seems  to  me,  jNIikhailo  ^likliailitch,  that 
for  the  hearer  it  makes  no  difference  whether  one 
shows  off  or  not.  .  .  ." 

"  Pardon  me,  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  it  does 
make  a  difference.  One  person  will  say  a  word 
to  me  and  it  will  pierce  me  through  and  through ; 
another  person  will  say  the  same  word,  or  one 
even  more  eloquent,  and  I  will  not  care  a  jot 
about  it.    Why  is  it  thus?  " 

"  That  is  to  say,  you  will  not  care  a  jot,"  inter- 
rupted Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  Yes,  I  will  not  care  a  jot,"  retorted  Lezh- 
nyoff.  "  I  will  not  even  prick  up  my  ears,  al- 
though, perhaps,  I  do  possess  large  ears.  The' 
fact  is  that  Rudin's  words  remain  mere  words,' 
and  they  never  will  become  deeds;  and,  in  the 
meanwhile,  those  same  words  may  agitate,  may 
ruin  a  young  heart." 

"  But  of  wliom — of  whom  are  you  speaking, 
Mikliailo  Mil^haihtch?" 

Lezhnyoff  paused. 

90 


RUDIN 

"  You  wish  to  know  of  whom  I  am  speaking? 
Of  Xatiilya  Alexyeevna." 

Alexan(h'a  ravk)vna  was  disturbed  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  immediately  kiughed. 

"  Good  gracious!  "  she  began,  "  what  strange 
ideas  you  always  have!  Natalya  is  still  a  child; 
and,  after  all,  if  there  should  be  anything  in  it, 
can  you  possibly  suppose  that  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna  .  .  .  ." 

"  Darya  Mikhailovna,  in  the  first  place,  is  an 
egoist,  and  lives  for  herself;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  she  is  so  confident  of  her  skill  in  rearing 
children  that  it  would  never  enter  her  head  to 
feel  uneasy  about  them.  Fie!  How  can  that  be! 
One  moment,  one  majestic  glance,  and  all  will 
be  reduced  to  servile  obedience.  That 's  the  idea 
of  that  lady,  who  imagines  that  she  is  a  female 
Maecenas,  and  a  clever  person,  and  God  knows 
what  besides;  w^hile,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  is 
nothing  but  a  horrid,  worldly  old  woman.  And 
Natalya  is  not  a  baby;  believe  me,  she  meditates 
more  frequently  and  more  profoundly  than  you 
and  I  do.  And  she — that  honest,  passionate,  and 
fiery  nature — must  needs  run  up  against  such  an 
actor,  such  a  flirt !  But  that  is  the  way  things  go." 

"  A  flirt!    Is  it  he  that  you  are  calling  a  flirt?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is  he Come,  now,  tell 

me  yourself,  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  what  sort  of 
part  is  he  playing  at  Darya  aNIikhaflovna's?  To 
be  an  idol,  an  oracle  in  a  house,  to  meddle  with  the 

)00 


RUDIX 

arrangements,  in  the  family  scandals  and  gos- 
sip— is  that  worthy  of  a  man?  " 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  gazed  into  Lezhnyoff's 
face  with  amazement. 

"  I  do  not  recognise  you,  ]Mikhailo  ^Nlikhai- 
litch,"  she  said.  "  You  have  grown  crimson;  you 
are  agitated.  Really,  there  must  be  something 
else  concealed  under  this."  .... 

"Well,  and  so  there  is!     Just  tell  a  woman    \ 
something  according  to  your  conviction,  and  she 
will  not  rest  easy  until  she  devises  some  petty, 
irrelevant  cause  or  other  which  makes  j'ou  talk 
in  precisely  that  way  and  not  otherwise." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  waxed  angry. 

"  Bravo,  Monsieur  Lezhnvoff !  You  are  be- 
ginning  to  attack  women  to  match  ]\Ir.  PigasofF ; 
but,  say  what  you  please,  however  penetrating 
you  may  be,  all  the  same  it  is  difficult  for  me  to 
believe  that  you  can  have  understood  everybody 
and  ever\i:hing  in  so  brief  a  space  of  time.  It 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  mistaken.  According 
to  you,  Rudin  is  a  sort  of  Tartuffe." 

"  The  point  is  that  lie  is  not  even  Tartuffe. 
Tartuffe  at  least  knew  what  he  was  aiming  at; 
])ut  that  fellow,  with  all  his  cleverness  .  .  .  ." 

"  What  of  him?  What  of  him?  Finish  your 
sentence,  vou  unjust,  hateful  man!" 

T.c/hnyoff  rose. 

"  T.isten,  Alexandra  Pavlovna,"  he  began;  "  it 
is  you  who  are  unjust.     It  is  not  I.     You  are 

101 


RUDIN 

vexed  with  me  for  my  harsh  judgment  of  Rudin; 
1  have  a  right  to  speak  sharply  ahoiit  him.  It  is 
possible  that  1  have  purehased  that  right  at  any- 
thinu"  but  a  small  cost.  I  know  him  well ;  we  lived 
together  for  a  long  time.  Remember  that  I 
promised  to  narrate  to  you  some  time  the  story  of 
our  life  in  ISIoscow.  Evidently  it  must  be  done 
now.  But  will  you  have  the  patience  to  hear  me 
out?" 

"  Speak,  speak! " 

"  Well,  at  vour  service." 

Lezhnyoff  began  to  pace  the  room  with  de- 
liberate strides,  halting  from  time  to  time  and 
bending  his  head  forward. 

"  Perhaps  you  know,"  he  began,  "  and  perhaps 
you  do  not  know,  that  I  was  early  left  an  orphan, 
and  already  in  my  seventeenth  year  I  had  no 
older  person  in  authority  over  me.  I  lived  in  my 
aunt's  house  in  Moscow,  and  did  what  I  pleased. 
I  was  rather  a  frivolous  and  selfish  youngster, 
was  fond  of  showing  off  and  of  bragging.  On 
entering  the  university,  I  behaved  like  a  school- 
boy, and  soon  got  into  a  row.  I  will  not  tell  you 
about  that;  it  is  not  worth  while.    I  lied,  and  lied 

in  a  pretty  odious  way The  matter  was 

brought  to  light ;  I  was  convicted  and  disgraced. 
....  I  lost  my  self-control,  and  cried  like  a 
child.  This  took  place  in  the  rooms  of  one  of  my 
acquaintances,  in  the  presence  of  many  comrades. 
All  began  to  laugh  loudly  at  me— all,  with  the 

102 


RUDIX 

exception  of  one  student,  who,  take  note,  had 
been  more  indignant  at  me  than  the  rest  so  long 
as  I  was  stubborn  and  would  not  confess  my  lie. 
Whether  he  felt  sorry  for  me,  or  for  w4iat  reason, 
at  all  events  he  put  his  arm  in  mine  and  led  me  to 
his  own  quarters." 

"That  was  Rudin?"  asked  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna. 

"  Xo;  it  was  not  Rudin It  was  a  man; 

he  is  dead  now  ....  it  was  a  remarkable  man. 
His  name  was  Pokorsky.  I  am  not  able  to  de- 
scribe him  in  a  few  words,  but  if  one  once  begins 
to  talk  about  him  he  does  not  care  to  talk  about 
any  one  else.  Pokorsky  lived  in  a  small,  low- 
ceiled  chamber,  in  the  upper  story  of  a  tiny,  an- 
cient wooden  house.  He  was  very  poor,  and  eked 
out  his  slender  means,  after  a  fashion,  by  giving 
lessons.  There  were  times  when  he  could  not 
treat  a  guest  even  to  a  cup  of  tea,  and  his  only 
couch  was  so  broken  down  that  it  resembled  a 
boat.  But,  in  spite  of  these  inconveniences,  a 
great  number  of  persons  visited  him.  Every  one 
loved  him;  he  drew  hearts  to  him.  You  will  not 
])eneve  how  sweet  and  merrv  it  was  to  sit  in  his 
poverty-stricken  little  chamber.  At  his  quarters 
I  made  acquaintance  with  Riidin.  He  had  al- 
ready dropped  his  petty  prince." 

"  AVhat  was  there  so  peculiar  about  that  Po- 
korsky?" asked  Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  How  sliall  I  explain  it  to  you?     Poetry  and 

103 


RUDIN 

I  truth — those  were  what  attracted  every  one  to 
him.  Tliouo-li  possessed  of  a  clear,  broad  mind, 
he  was  as  amiable  and  amusing  as  a  child.  To  this 
day,  the  sound  of  his  lim])i(l  laughter  rings  in  my 
ears;  and,  at  the  same  time,  he 

"  Blazed  like  the  midnight  taper 
Before  the  shrine  of  good  .   .  . 

That  was  the  way  one  half -crazy  and  most  charm- 
ing poet  of  our  circle  expressed  himself  about 
him." 

"  But  how  did  he  talk?  "  Alexandra  Pavlovna 
put  another  question. 

"  He  talked  well  when  he  was  in  the  right 
mood,  but  not  astonishingly.  Even  then,  Riidin 
was  twenty  times  more  eloquent  than  he." 

LezhnyofF  halted  and  folded  his  arms. 

"  Pokorsky  and  Riidin  did  not  resemble  each 
other.  There  was  a  great  deal  more  brilliancy 
and  crash  about  Riidin,  and,  if  you  like,  more 
enthusiasm.  He  appeared  to  be  far  more  gifted 
than  Pokorsky,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was 
a  wretched  creature  in  comparison  with  him.  Rii- 
din could  develop  any  idea  in  a  superior  manner; 
he  argued  in  a  masterly  way,  but  his  ideas  did  not 
have  their  birth  in  his  own  head;  he  took  them 
from  others,  especially  from  Pokorsky.  In  as- 
pect, Pokorsky  was  quiet  and  gentle,  even  weak, 
was  madly  fond   of  women   and  of  going  on 

104 


RUDIX 

sprees,  and  allowed  no  one  to  affront  him. 
Riidin  appeared  to  be  full  of  fire,  boldness,  life: 
but  in  his  soul  he  was  cold,  and  almost  timid, 
until  his  self-love  was  wounded;  then  he  became 
raving  mad.  He  tried  in  every  way  to  conquer 
people  for  himself,  but  he  conquered  them  in  the 
name  of  general  principles  and  ideas,  and  really 
exercised  a  powerful  influence  on  many.  No  one 
loved  him,  it  is  true ;  I  was  the  only  one,  perhaps, 
who  became  attached  to  him.  Thev  endured  his 
yoke.  .  .  .  All  surrendered  themselves  to  Po- 
korsky  of  their  own  accord.  On  the  other  hand, 
Rudin  never  refused  to  talk  and  argue  with  the 

first  person  who  came  to  hand He  had  not 

read  any  too  many  books,  but,  at  all  events,  many 
more  than  Pokorsky  had,  and  than  all  the  rest  of 
us  had ;  he  had,  in  addition,  a  sj^stematic  mind,  a 
vast  memorv,  and  vou  know  that  that  takes  effect 
on  young  people.  '  Hey  there,  give  me  deduc- 
tions, sum  totals,  no  matter  if  they  are  incorrect, 
only  give  me  totals! '  A  thoroughly  conscientious 
man  is  not  suited  to  that.  Try  to  tell  young  peo- 
ple that  you  cannot  give  them  the  whole  truth,  be- 
cause you  yourself  are  not  in  possession  of  it,  and 

the  young  people  will  not  even  listen  to  you 

But  neither  can  you  deceive  them.     It  is  indis- 
pensable that  you  yourself  should  at  least  half 
believe  that  yon  are  in  possession  of  the  truth. ' 
....  That  is  why  Riidin  acted  so  powerfully 
on  us  follows.     You  sec,  T  just  told  you  tliat  he 

10.5 


i 


RUDIX 

had  read  a  little,  hut  he  had  read  philosophical 
hooks,  and  iiis  head  was  so  constructed  tliat  from 
what  he  had  read  he  immediately  extracted  all 
the  generalities,  grasped  the  very  root  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  then  traced  straight,  brilliant  lines  of 
thought  from  it  in  all  directions,  and  threw  open 
spiritual  perspectives.  Our  circle  then  consisted, 
to  speak  the  honest  truth,  of  boys.  Philosophy, 
art,  science,  life  itself,  were  all  mere  words  to  us, 
if  you  like, — even  illusory, — very  beautiful,  but 
scattered,  isolated  conceptions.  We  did  not  re- 
cognise any  common  bond  between  these  concep- 
tions, any  common  law  of  the  universe.  We  felt 
none,  although  we  talked  about  it  in  an  obscure 

way,  and  endeavoured  to  form  an  idea  of  it 

In  listening  to  Riidin,  it  seemed  to  us,  for  the  first 
time,  that  we  had  grasped  that  common  bond,  that 
the  curtain  had  at  last  been  lifted.  Let  us  admit 
that  he  did  not  utter  his  own  ideas.  What  of  that  ? 
Yet  harmonious  order  was  installed  in  all  we 
knew,  all  the  scattered  facts  suddenly  became 
united,  ranged  themselves  in  order,  waxed  great 
y  before  our  eyes,  like  a  building.  Everything 
shone  brightly,  spirit  breathed  everywhere.  .  .  . 
Nothing  remained  senseless,  fortuitous;  in  every- 
thing an  intelligent  necessity  and  beauty  were 
expressed,  everything  acquired  a  clear  and,  at 
the  same  time,  mysterious  significance;  every 
separate  phenomenon  of  life  rang  out  in  har- 
monious accord ;  and  we  ourselves,  with  a  certain 

lOG 


RUDIN 

holy  fear  of  adoration,  with  sweet  quaking  at  the 
heart,  felt  ourselves  to  be  living  vessels  of  the 
eternal  truth,  its  instruments,  bound  to  some- 
thing grand You  do  not  find  all  this  ri- 
diculous? " 

"Not  in  the  least!"  replied  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna,  slowly.  "Why  do  you  think  so?  I  do 
not  entirely  comprehend  you,  but  I  do  not  find 
it  ridiculous." 

"  Of  course  we  have  succeeded  in  gaining  sense 
since  those  days,"  went  on  Lezhnyoff ;  "  all  that 
may  now  strike  us  as  childish But,  I  re- 
peat it,  we  were  then  indebted  to  Rudin  for  a 
great  deal.  Pokorsky  was  incomparably,  indis- 
putably above  him ;  but  he  sometimes  felt  slothful, 
and  held  his  peace.  He  was  a  nervous,  sickly 
man ;  on  the  other  hand,  when  he  did  unfold  his 
wings — my  God!  whither  did  he  not  soar!  Into 
the  very  deptlis  and  azure  of  heaven !  But  in  Ru- 
din, in  that  handsome  and  stately  young  fellow, 
there  was  a  lot  of  pettiness;  he  even  indulged  in 
gossip;  he  liad  a  passion  for  meddling  with  every- 
tliing,  defining  and  explaining  everything.  His 
bustling  activity  never  ceased  ....  a  political 
nature,  ma'am.  I  am  speaking  of  liini  as  I  knew 
him  then.  15ut,  unhap])ily,  he  has  not  changed. 
On  the  other  liand,  he  lias  not  altered  liis  be- 
liefs ....  in  thirty  years!  ....  Not  every  one 
can  say  that  of  liimself." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  .^Vlexandra  Pavlovna,  "  wliy 

107 


RUDIN 

do  you  stalk  back  and  forth  in  the  room  like  a 
penduliini^  " 

"  1  feci  better  so,"  replied  Lczbnyoff .  "  Well, 
ma'am,  when  I  got  into  Pokorsky's  set,  I  nmst 
inform  you,  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  I  was  com- 
pletely regenerated:  1  became  humble,  I  asked 
questions,  I  studied,  I  worshipped — in  a  word,  it 
was  exactly  as  though  I  had  entered  some  temple 
or  other.  Yes;  and,  in  fact,  when  I  recall  our 
meetings — well,  by  heavens!  there  was  a  great 
deal  that  was  good,  even  touching,  about  them. 
Just  imagine  for  yourself:  five  or  six  young  fel- 
lows have  gathered  together;  one  tallow  candle 
is  burning,  very  bad  tea  is  served,  and  with  it  an- 
cient— very  ancient — rusks;  and  you  ought  to 
have  seen  all  our  faces,  you  ought  to  have  heard 
our  speeches!  In  every  man's  eyes  there  is  rap- 
ture, his  cheeks  flame,  his  heart  beats,  and  we 
talk  about  God,  about  truth,  about  the  future  of 
mankind,  about  poetry.  We  sometimes  talk  non- 
sense, we  wax  enthusiastic  over  trifles;  but 
where  's  the  harm  in  that?  ....  Pokorsky  sits, 
with  his  feet  tucked  up,  with  his  pale  cheek 
propped  on  his  hand;  but  his  eyes  fairly  flash. 
Riidin  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
talks, — talks  most  beautifully, — precisely  like  the 
young  Demosthenes  before  the  roaring  sea;  the 
dishevelled  poet,  Subbotin,  gives  vent,  from  time 
to  time,  and  as  though  in  his  sleep,  to  abrupt  ex- 

108 


RUDIX 

clamations;  a  student  of  forty,  the  son  of  the 
German  pastor  Seheller,  who  bore  among  us  the 
reputation  of  a  profound  thinker,  thanks  to  his 
everlasting  silence,  which  was  never  broken  by 
anything  whatever,  holds  his  peace  somehow  in  a 
peculiarly  solemn  way;  even  the  jolly  Shstchitoff, 
the  Aristoj^hanes  of  our  assemblies,  is  quiet  and 
merely  grins;  two  or  three  novices  are  listening 

witli    triump}\ant    enjoyment And    the 

night  flies  on  softly  and  smoothly,  as  on  wings. 
And  now  the  grey  morning  begins  to  appear 
and  we  disperse,  moved,  cheerful,  honest,  sober 
(liquor  was  not  even  mentioned  among  us  then), 
with  a  certain  agreeable  languor  in  the  soul  .... 
and  we  even  gaze  at  the  stars  in  a  confiding 
sort  of  way,  as  though  they  had  become  nearer 

and  more  comprehensible Ekh!  that  was 

a  glorious  time,  and  I  am  not  willing  to  believe 
that  it  was  wasted.  And  it  was  not  wasted — it 
was  not  wasted,  even  for  those  whom  life  ren- 
dered commonplace  later  on How  many 

times  has  it  been  mv  lot  to  encounter  such  men, 
mv  former  comrades!  It  seems  as  though  a  man 
had  ])ecome  a  perfect  wild  beast,  but  no  sooner 
do  you  mention  Pokorsky's  name  in  his  presence 
than  all  the  remnants  of  nobility  begin  to  stir 
within  him,  just  as  though  you  had  uncorked 
a  forgotten  phial  of  perfume  in  a  dark,  dirty 
room " 

109 


RUDIN 

Lezhnvoff  ceased;  his  colourless  face  had  be- 
come  Ihislied. 

"  l?iit  why?  When  did  j'Oii  quarrel  with  Ru- 
din? "  said  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  gazing  at 
LezhnyofF  in  surprise. 

"  I  did  not  quarrel  with  him,  but  I  parted  from 
him  when  I  came  to  know  him  definitively  abroad. 
But  I  might  have  quarrelled  with  him  even  in 
^Moscow.    He  played  me  a  nasty  trick  even  then." 

"  What  was  it?'" 

"  It  was  this:  I  .  .  .  .  how  shall  I  express  it 
to  you?  ....  it  does  not  suit  my  figure  .... 
but  I  was  always  greatly  inclined  to  fall  in  love." 

"  You?  " 

"  Yes,  I.  It  is  strange,  is  it  not?  Neverthe- 
less, so  it  is Well,  ma'am,  so  at  that  time 

I  fell  in  love  with  a  very  charming  young  girl. 
....  But  why  do  you  look  at  me  in  that  way? 
I  might  tell  you  a  far  more  surprising  thing  about 
myself." 

"  What  is  that  thing,  permit  me  to  ask?  " 

"  Well,  it  was  this  sort  of  thing.  In  those 
]Moscow  days,  I  used  to  go  to  nocturnal  rendez- 
vous ....  with  whom  do  you  suppose?  .... 
with  a  young  linden-tree  at  the  end  of  my  garden. 
I  embraced  its  slender,  shapely  bole,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  was  embracing  all  nature,  and  my 
heart  swelled  and  melted,  as  though,  in  actual 

fact,  all  nature  were  merged  in  it That 's 

the  sort  of  fellow  I  used  to  be!  ...  .  But  what 

110 


RUDIN 

of  that?  Perhaps  you  think  that  I  did  not  write 
verses?  I  did,  ma'am,  and  even  composed  a  whole 
drama  in  imitation  of  '  jNlanfred.'  Among  the 
acting  personages  there  was  a  spectre  with  blood 
on  its  breast, — and  not  its  own  blood  either,  ob- 
serve, but  the  blood  of  mankind  in  general 

Yes,  ma'am;  yes,  ma'am;  pray  be  not  amazed. 
....  But  I  began  to  tell  you  about  my  love. 
I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  certain  young 
girl.  .  .  ." 

"  And  you  ceased  to  go  to  the  tryst  with  the 
linden-tree?"  asked  Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  I  did.  The  girl  was  a  very  amiable  and  very 
pretty  creature,  with  clear,  merry  little  eyes  and 
a  ringing  voice." 

"  You  describe  well,"  remarked  Alexandra 
Pavlovna,  with  a  smile. 

"  And  vou  are  a  very  severe  critic,"  retorted 
Lezhnyoff .    "  Well,  ma'am,  this  young  girl  lived 

with  her  old  father But  I  will  not  enter 

into  details.  I  will  merely  tell  you  that  the  girl 
was,  in  reality,  extremely  amiable — she  was  for- 
ever pouring  out  three  or  four  glasses  of  tea  for 
you,  when  you  had  asked  for  only  lialf  a  glass. 
....  On  the  third  day  after  I  had  first  met  her 
I  was  already  aglow,  and  on  the  seventh  day  I 
could  contain  myself  no  longer  and  made  a  clean 
])reast  of  it  all  to  Riidin.  It  is  impossible  for  a 
young  man  in  love  not  to  bab})le,  and  I  confessed 
the  whole  thing  to  lludin.    I  was  then  com])letely 

111 


RUDIN 

under  his  influence,  and  that  influence  I  will  say, 
without  circumlocution,  was  hcncficial  in  many 
respects.  He  was  the  flrst  one  wlio  did  not  scorn 
me,  who  ruhhed  the  corners  off  me.  I  loved  Po- 
korsky  passionately,  and  felt  a  certain  awe  of  his 
spiritual  purity;  but  I  stood  nearer  to  Rudin. 
On  learning  of  my  love,  he  went  into  indescribable 
raptures ;  he  congratulated  me,  embraced  me,  and 
immediately  set  to  work  to  instruct  me,  to  explain 
to  me  the  full  importance  of  my  new  situation. 

I  pricked  up  my  ears Well,  you  already 

know  how  he  can  talk.  His  words  had  a  remark- 
able effect  on  me.  I  suddenly  conceived  an  amaz- 
ing respect  for  myself;  I  assumed  a  serious  as- 
pect, and  ceased  to  laugh.  I  remember  that  I 
even  began  to  walk  more  cautiously,  as  though 
I  had  in  my  bosom  a  vessel  filled  with  precious 

liquid  which  I  was  afraid  of  spilling I 

was  very  happy;  the  more  so,  as  I  was  openly 
favoured.  Rudin  expressed  a  desire  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  object  of  my  affections;  and 
I  myself  almost  insisted  on  introducing  him." 

"  Well,  I  see — I  see  now  what  the  point 
is,"  interrupted  Alexandra  Pavlovna.  "  Rudin 
robbed  you  of  the  object  of  your  affections,  and 
you  have  not  been  able  to  forgive  him  for  that 

to  this  day I  will  wager  that  I  am  not 

mistaken." 

"  And  you  would  lose  your  wager,  Alexandra 
Pavlovna.     You  are  mistaken.     Rudin  did  not 

112 


RUDIN 

rob  me  of  the  object  of  mj"  affections,  and  he 
did  not  try  to  do  so ;  but,  nevertheless,  he  ruined 
my  happiness, — although,  judging  the  matter 
coolly,  I  am  now  ready  to  express  my  thanks  to 
him  for  that.  But  at  that  time  I  nearly  went 
crazy.  Rudin  had  not  the  slightest  desire  to  in- 
jure me.  On  the  contrary.  But,  as  a  consequence 
of  his  cursed  habit  of  pinning  down  every  move- 
ment in  life — in  his  own  life  and  in  that  of  others 
— with  a  word,  as  one  does  a  butterfly  with  a  pin, 
he  undertook  to  explain  to  both  of  us  our  selves, 
our  relations,  how  we  ought  to  behave;  despoti- 
cally made  us  render  him  an  account  of  our  feel- 
ings and  thoughts;  praised  us,  reproved  us,  even 
entered  into  correspondence  with  us.  Just  imag- 
ine! ....  ^Vell,  he  completely  disconcerted  us. 
I  would  hardly  have  married  my  young  lady  at 
that  time  (I  had  enough  common  sense  left  in 
me  for  that ) ,  but  at  least  she  and  I  might  have 
passed  a  few  glorious  months  together,  after  the 
fashion  of  Paul  and  Virginia;  and  then  misun- 
derstandings would  have  arisen,  and  all  sorts  of 
strained  relations, — all  sorts  of  nonsense  would 
liave  come  along,  in  short.  It  ended  thus — that 
one  fine  morning  Rudin  argued  himself  into  the 
conviction  tliat  it  was  his  most  sacred  duty,  as 
a  friend,  to  inform  the  old  father  of  everything, — 
and  he  did  it." 

"You   don't   say  so!"   exclaimed   Alexandra 
Pavlovna. 

Mr. 


RUBIN 

"  Yes,  and  observe  that  he  did  it  with  my  con- 
sent—that 's  the  remarkable  tiling  about  it!  ...  . 
1  rememlMjr  to  this  day  what  a  chaos  I  carried 
alM)ut  then  in  my  head;  everything  was  simply 
whirling  round  and  presenting  itself  as  though 
in  a  camera-obscura ;  white  appeared  to  be  black, 
and   black   white;   falsehood   seemed   truth,   and 

fantasy  seemed  duty Eh!    Even  now  I 

am  ashamed  to  recall  it.  As  for  Rudin,  he  was 
not  cast  down  ....  not  a  bit  of  it;  he  used  to 
soar  along,  like  a  swallow  over  a  pond,  through 
all  sorts  of  misunderstandings  and  complica- 
tions." 

"  And  so  you  parted  from  j^our  young  girl?  " 
inquired  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  ingenuously  in- 
clining her  head  on  one  side  and  elevating  her 
eyebrows. 

"  I  did  ...  .  and  did  it  in  a  bad  way,  with 
insulting  awkwardness,  publicly,  and  that  with- 
out any  necessity  for  publicity.  ...  I  wept 
myself,  and  she  wept,  and  the  devil  knows  what 

took  place Some  sort  of  a  Gordian  knot 

had  got  tied,  and  it  was  necessary  to  cut  it, — and 
it  hurt.  But  ever}i;hing  in  the  world  settles  itself 
for  the  best.  She  married  a  fine  man,  and  is 
thriving  now.  .  .  ." 

"  But  confess,  you  cannot  yet  pardon  Rii- 
din  .  .  .  .  ,"  Alexandra  Pavlovna  began. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  ...  .  interrupted  Lezh- 
nyoff .     "  I  cried  like  a  child  when  I  saw  him  off 

111 


RUDIN 

on  his  way  abroad.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  seed 
was  planted  in  my  soul  at  that  time.  And  when 
I  met  him  afterward  abroad,  ....  well,  I  had 
grown  older  then,  ....  Rudin  appeared  to  me 
in  his  true  light." 

"  What,  precisely,  was  it  that  you  discovered 
in  him?  " 

"  Why,  everything  which  I  have  been  saying 
to  you  for  about  an  hour  past.  But  enough  of 
him.  I  only  wished  to  prove  to  you  that  if  I 
judge  him  severely,  it  is  not  because  I  do  not 

know  him As  for  Natalya  Alexyeevna, 

I  shall  waste  no  superfluous  words  on  her;  but 
do  vou  direct  vour  attention  to  your  brother." 

"  To  my  brother!    What  do  you  mean? " 

"  Why,  look  at  him.  Do  you  notice  nothing?  " 
Alexandra  Pavlovna  dropped  her  eyes. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said;  "it  is  quite  true 
....  for  some  time  past  ....  my  brother  has 
not  been  like  himself.  But  is  it  possible  that  you 
think  .  .  .  ." 

"  IIusli !  I  think  he  is  coming  this  way,"  ejacu- 
lated Lezhnyoff,  in  a  whisper.  "  But  Xatalya 
is  not  a  child,  l)elieve  me,  although,  unfortunately, 
she  is  as  inexperienced  as  a  child.  You  will  see, 
that  young  girl  will  astonish  us  all." 

"  In  what  way?  " 

"  In  this  wav  ....  do  vou  know  tliat  it  is 
precisely  that  sort  of  girls  who  drown  themselves, 
take  poison,  and  so  forth?    Never  mind  if  she  is 

1]5 


KUDIN 

quiet;  lier  passions  are  strong,  and  her  charac- 
ter— is  the  same,  61,  61!  " 

"  Well,  it  strikes  me  that  you  are  dropping 
into  poetry.  To  such  a  phlegmatic  man  as  you 
1  appear  like  a  volcano,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  no!  "  replied  I^ezhnyofF,  with  a  smile. 
"  And  as  for  character, — you  have  no  character 
at  all,  thank  God!" 

"  What  sort  of  impertinence  is  this?  " 

"  This?  It  is  the  greatest  compliment,  I  as- 
sure you.  .  .  ." 

VolyntzefF  entered  and  looked  suspiciously  at 
Lezhnyoff  and  his  sister.  He  had  grown  thin 
of  late.  Both  of  them  began  to  talk  to  him,  but 
he  hardly  smiled  in  response  to  their  jests,  and 
looked — as  Pigasoff  had  once  expressed  himself 
concerning  him — like  a  sorrowful  hare.  But, 
probably,  there  never  yet  has  existed  in  the  world 
a  man  who,  at  least  once  in  his  life,  has  not  looked 
still  worse  than  that.  Voh^ntzefF  felt  that  Na- 
talya  'vvas  receding  from  him,  and,  along  with  her, 
it  seemed  that  the  earth  was  slipping  out  from 
under  his  feet. 


■Jlfi 


VII 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Xatalya  rose 
late.  On  the  previous  day  she  had  been  very 
taciturn  until  evening,  being  secretly  ashamed  of 
her  tears,  and  she  had  slept  very  badly.  As  she 
sat,  half  dressed,  before  her  little  piano,  she  now 
struck  chords  which  were  barely  audible  in  order 
not  to  awaken  ^Nllle.  Boncourt,  now  leaned  her 
brow  against  the  cold  keys  and  remained  motion- 
less for  a  long  time.  She  kept  thinking  all  the 
while,  not  of  Riidin  himself,  but  of  some  word 
which  he  had  uttered,  and  was  completely  ab- 
sorbed in  her  meditation.  From  time  to  time, 
VolyntzefF  recurred  to  her  mind.  She  knew  that 
he  loved  her.    But  her  thought  instantly  deserted 

him She  felt  a  strange  agitation.    In  the 

morning  she  hastily  dressed  herself,  went  down- 
stairs, and,  after  bidding  her  mother  good  morn- 
ing, seized  advantage  of  an  opportunity  and 
went  off  alone  into  the  garden.  .  .  .  The  day 
was  a  hot,  briglit,  radiant  day,  in  spite  of  showers 
at  intervals.  Athwart  the  blue  sky  low-hanging, 
smoke-coloured  clouds  floated  swimmingly  witli- 
out  concealing  the  sun,  and  from  time  to  time 
dropped  upon  the  fields  abundant  streams  of  a 

117 


RUDIX 

sudden  and  momentary  downpour.  The  large, 
glittering'  drops  showered  down  swiftly,  with  a 
certain  sharp  sound,  like  diamonds;  the  sun 
sparkled  through  the  fine  meshes  of  their  net- 
work; the  grass,  shortly  hefore  agitated  by  the 
breeze,  did  not  stir,  thirstily  drinking  in  the 
moisture;  the  soaked  trees  languidly  trembled 
through  all  their  little  leaves;  the  birds  did  not 
cease  singing,  and  it  was  a  joy  to  hear  their  volu- 
ble chirping  in  the  fresh  rustle  and  murmur  of  the 
passing  rain.  The  blazing  roads  smoked,  and 
became  somewhat  streaked  under  the  sharp  blows 
of  the  frequent  sprinklings.  15  ut  now  the  thun- 
der-cloud passed  over,  a  little  breeze  began  to 
flutter  its  wings,  the  grass  began  to  be  suffused 
with  hues  of  emerald  and  gold,  ....  the  leaves 
of  the  trees,  clinging  one  to  another,  became 
transparent.  A  powerful  odour  arose  every- 
where around 

The  sky  had  almost  completely  cleared  when 
Natalya  went  into  the  garden.  It  breathed  forth 
freshness  and  tranquillity — that  gentle  and 
happy  tranquillity  which  reacts  upon  the  heart  of 
man  with  the  sweet  languor  of  mysterious  sym- 
pathy and  undefined  desires 

Natalya  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  pond, 
down  the  long  avenue  of  silvery  poplars.  Sud- 
denly, in  front  of  her,  as  though  from  the  earth, 
Rudin  started  up. 

She  became  confused.    He  gazed  into  her  face. 

118 


RUDIN 

"  You  are  alone?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  am  alone,"  replied  Xatalya;  "but  I 
came  out  only  for  a  minute.  ....  I  must  go 
back  to  the  house." 

"  I  will  accompany  you." 

And  he  walked  by  her  side. 

"  You  seem  to  be  sad  i  "  he  said. 

"  I?  .  .  .  .  And  I  was  about  to  remark  to  you 
that  you  seem  to  be  out  of  sorts." 

"  Perhaps I  am  that  way  sometimes. 

It  is  more  excusable  in  me  than  in  you." 

"  Why?  Do  you  think  that  I  have  nothing 
to  feel  sad  about?  " 

"  At  your  age  one  must  enjoy  life." 

Xatalya  advanced  several  paces  in  silence. 

"Dmitry  Nikolaitch!"  she  said. 

"What?" 

"  Do  you  remember  ....  do  you  remember 
the  comparison  which  you  made  yesterday?  You 
remember  ....  about  the  oak?  " 

"  Well,  yes;  I  remember  it.    What  of  it?  " 

Xatalya  cast  a  stealthy  glance  at  Rudin. 

"  Why  did  you  ....  what  did  you  mean  to 
sav  bv  that  comparison  ?  " 

Rudin  bowed  his  head,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  distance. 

"Xatalya  Alexyeevna!"  he  began,  with  that 
repressed  and  significant  expression  peculiar  to 
him,  which  always  made  the  hearer  think  that 
liiidin   was  not  uttering  the  tenth   part  of  that 

lit) 


RUDIN 

whicli  was  oppressing  his  soul. — '*  Natalya  Alex- 
yccvna!  you  may  have  observed  that  I  speak 
very  httle  of  my  past.  There  are  some  strings 
wliich  1  do  not  touch  at  all.  INIy  heart  .... 
what  need  is  there  for  any  one  to  know  what  has 
taken  place  in  it?  To  expose  that  on  show  has 
always  seemed  to  me  a  sacrilege.     But  with  you 

1  am  frank:  you  arouse  my  confidence I 

cannot  conceal  from  you  that  I  have  lived  and 

suffered  like  every  one  else When  and 

how?  It  is  not  worth  while  to  talk  about  that; 
but  my  heart  has  experienced  many  joys  and 
many  sorrows." 

Riidin  paused  for  a  little. 

"  What  I  said  to  you  yesterday,"  he  went  on, 
"  may  be,  in  some  degree,  applied  to  me — to  my 
present  position.  But,  again,  this  is  not  worth 
mentioning.  That  side  of  my  life  has  already  van- 
ished. All  that  remains  for  me  now  is  to  drag 
myself  along  the  sultry,  dusty  road,  from  post- 
ing-station   to    station,    in    a    jolting    peasant's 

cart When  I  shall  arrive,  and  whether  I 

shall  arrive, — God  knows Let  us,  rather, 

talk  about  you." 

"  Is  it  possible,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch,"  Natalya 
interrupted  him,  "  that  you  expect  nothing  from 
life?" 

"  Oh,  no!   I  expect  a  great  deal — but  not  for 

myself Activity,  the  bliss  of  activity,  I 

shall  never  renounce;  but  I  have  renounced  en- 

120 


RUDIN 

joyment.  My  hopes,  my  dreams,  and  my  own 
personal  happiness  have  nothing  in  common. 
Love  "  (at  this  word  he  shrugged  his  shoulders) 
— "  love  is  not  for  me.  I  ....  am  not  worthy 
of  it.  The  woman  who  loves  has  a  right  to 
demand  everything  from  a  man,  and  I  can  no 
longer  give  everything.  ^Moreover,  pleasing  is  an 
affair  of  youth;  I  am  too  old.  How  should  I 
turn  other  people's  heads?  God  grant  that  I  may 
keep  my  own  on  my  shoulders!  " 

"I  understand,"  said  Xatalya;  "he  who  is  v/ 
striving  toward  a  grand  goal  must  no  longer 
think  of  himself;  hut  is  not  a  woman  capable  of 
valuing  such  a  man?  It  seems  to  me,  on  the 
contrary,  that  a  woman  will  sooner  turn  her  back 
on  an  egoist.  All  young  men — those  youths,  ac- 
cording to  you,  are  egoists — all  are  engrossed 
only  with  themselves,  even  w^hen  thev  love.  Be- 
lieve  me,  a  woman  is  not  only  capable  of  under- 
standing self-sacrifice:  she  herself  understands  / 
how  to  sacrifice  herself." 

Xatalya's  cheeks  flushed  slightly,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled.  Until  her  acquaintance  with  Rudin, 
she  would  never  have  uttered  such  a  long  speech 
and  with  such  fervour. 

"  You  have  more  than  once  heard  my  opinion 
as  to  the  vocation  of  women,"  returned  Rudin, 
with  a  condescending  smile.  "  You  know  that,  in 
my  opinion,  Jeanne  d'Arc  alone  could  have  saved 

France But   that   is   not   the   point.      I 

121 


RUDIX 

wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you.    You  are  stand- 

in<r  on  the  tlireshold  of  hl'e To  discuss  your 

future  will  he  cheerful  and  not  unfruitful 

Listen!  You  know  that  I  am  your  friend;  1  take 
in  you  almost  the  interest  of  a  hlood-relation 
....  and,  therefore,  I  hope  you  will  not  con- 
sider my  question  indiscreet.  Tell  me,  is  your 
heart  perfectly  calm  so  far?  " 

Natalya  hlushed  all  over  and  said  nothing. 
Rudin  halted,  and  she  halted  also. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said;  "but  I  did  not  in  the  least 
expect  .  .  .  ." 

"  However,"  he  went  on,  "  you  need  not  an- 
swer me.     Your  secret  is  known  to  me." 

Natalya  glanced  at  him  almost  with  terror. 

"  Yes  ....  yes;  I  know  who  pleases  you. 
And  I  must  say  that  you  could  not  have  made  a 
better  choice.  He  is  a  very  fine  man;  he  will 
know  how  to  prize  you.  He  is  not  rumpled  with 
life — he  is  simple  and  transparent  of  soul — he 
will  make  you  happy." 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  Dmitry  Niko- 
laitch?  " 

"  As  if  you  did  not  understand  of  whom  I  am 
speaking!  Of  Volyntzeif,  of  course.  Well,  now, 
is  that  incorrect  ?  " 

Natalya  turned  aw^ay  a  little  from  Rudin.  Sb'^ 
was  completely  disconcerted. 

122 


RUDIX 

"  Does  not  he  love  you?  Good  gracious!  Ke 
never  takes  his  eyes  off  you;  he  watches  your 
every  movement ;  yes — and,  after  all,  can  love  be 
concealed?  And  can  you  be  ill  disposed  toward 
him?  So  far  as  I  can  see,  your  mother  also  is 
pleased  with  him  ....  your  choice.  ..." 

"  Dmitry  Nikola  itch,"  Xatalya  interrupted 
him,  in  her  confusion  extending  her  hand  to  a 
bush  which  stood  near  bv,  "  really,  I  find  it  so 
awkward  to  talk  about  this ;  but  I  assure  you  .  .  . 
you  are  mistaken." 

"I    am    mistaken?"    repeated    Riidin 

"  I  think  not It  is  not  long  since  I  made 

your  acquaintance ;  but  I  already  know  you  well. 
^Vhat  is  the  meaning  of  the  change  which  I  per- 
ceive in  you — which  I  clearly  perceive?  Are  you 
the  same  as  I  found  you  six  weeks  ago?  ....  Xo, 
Xatalya  Alexyeevna,  your  heart  is  not  at  ease." 

"  Possibly,"  replied  Xatalya,  in  a  hardly  au- 
dible tone;  "  but  you  are  mistaken,  nevertheless."' 

"  How  so?  "  inquired  Riidin. 

"Leave  me;  do  not  ask  me!"  returned  Xa- 
talya, and  with  swift  steps  she  took  her  way  home- 
ward. 

She  was  terrified  at  all  which  she  suddenly  felt 
within  her. 

Rudin  overtook  and  stopped  her. 

"Xatalya  Alexyeevna!"  he  began.  "This 
-conversation  cannot  end  thus;  it  is  too  important 

123 


RUDIN 

for  me  also How  am  I  to  understand 

von  f 

"  Leave  me!  "  repeated  Natalya. 

"  Natiilva  Alexveevna,  for  God's  sake  I" 

Agitation  was  depicted  on  Riidin's  coun- 
tenance.    He  had  turned  pale. 

"You  understand  everything;  you  must  un- 
derstand me,  too!"  said  Xatalya,  tore  her  hand 
from  him,  and  walked  on  without  glancing  back. 

"  Only  one  word!  "  cried  Rudin  after  her. 

She  paused,  but  did  not  turn  round. 

"  You  asked  me  what  I  meant  to  say  by  my 
comparison  of  yesterday.  Know  then — I  will  not 
deceive  you.  I  was  speaking  of  myself — of  my 
past — and  of  you." 

"What?    Of  me?" 

"  Yes,  of  you ;  I  repeat  it,  I  will  not  deceive 

you You  know  now  of  what  feeling — of 

what  new  feeling  I  was  speaking  then 

Until  to-day  I  could  never  have  made  up  my 
mind  .  .  .  ." 

Natalya  suddenly  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  ran  toward  the  house. 

She  was  so  shaken  by  the  unexpected  outcome 
of  the  conversation  with  Rudin  that  she  did  not 
notice  VolyntzefF,  past  whom  she  ran.  He  was 
standing  motionless,  with  his  back  resting  against 
a  tree.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier  he  had  ar- 
rived at  Darya  Mikhailovna's.  and  had  foimd  her 
in  the  drawing-room ;  he  had  said  a  word  or  two, 

124 


RUDIN 

then  had  retreated  unobserved  and  set  out  in 
search  of  Xatalya.  Guided  by  the  instinct  pecu- 
liar to  people  in  love,  he  had  gone  straight  into  the 
garden,  and  had  hit  upon  her  and  Riidin  at  the 
very  moment  when  she  tore  her  hand  from  him. 
EvervtliiuCT  went  dark  before  VolvntzefF's  eves. 
After  following  Xatalya  with  his  glance,  he  sep- 
arated himself  from  the  tree  and  took  a  couple  of 
steps,  not  knowing  whither  he  was  going  or  why. 
Rudin  caught  sight  of  him  as  he  came  on  a  level 
with  him.  Each  man  looked  the  other  in  the  eye, 
bowed,  and  parted  in  silence. 

"  This  shall  not  end  so,"  both  said  to  them- 
selves. 

VolyntzefF  walked  to  the  very  end  of  the  gar- 
den. He  felt  bitter  and  disgusted,  and  on  his 
heart  lav  a  burden  of  lead,  and  from  time  to  time 
his  blood  rose  viciously.  A  fine  rain  again  began 
to  patter  down.  Rudin  returned  to  his  own  room. 
And  he  was  not  at  ease ;  his  thoughts  were  circling 
round  in  a  whirlwind.  Unexpected  contact  with 
a  young,  honourable,  trustful  soul  will  perturb 
any  one. 

x\t  table  everything  went  wrong  someliow.  Xa- 
talya, ghastly  j)ale,  could  hardly  hold  herself  on 
lier  chair,  and  did  not  raise  her  eves.  VolvntzefF, 
as  usual,  sat  ])eside  her,  and  from  time  to  time 
made  a  constrained  remark  to  her.  It  so  haj)- 
pened  that  Pigasoff  was  dining  on  that  day  with 
Darya  Mikhaflovna.     He  talked  more  at  table 

12.5 


RtJDIN 

than  any  one  else.  Among  other  things,  he  un- 
dertook to  prove  that  men,  like  dogs,  can  be 
divided  into  bob-tailed  and  long-tailed.  "  People 
are  bob-tailed,"  he  said,  "  both  by  birth  and 
through  their  own  fault.  The  bob-tailed  are 
badly  off;  nothing  succeeds  with  them;  they  have 
not  confidence  in  themselves.  But  the  man  who 
has  a  long,  bushy  tail  is  the  happy  man.  He  may 
be  both  worse  and  weaker  than  the  bob-tailed 
man,  but  he  has  confidence  in  himself;  he  spreads 
out  his  tail  and  everybody  admires  it.  And  just 
that  is  deserving  of  amazement,  for  the  tail  is  an 
utterly  useless  part  of  the  body,  you  must  admit ; 
of  what  use  can  a  tail  be?  But  every  one  judges 
of  your  merits  by  your  tail. 

"  I,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  belong  to  the 
category  of  the  bob-tailed,  and  the  most  vexa- 
tious part  of  it  all  is  that  I  cut  off  my  own  tail." 

"  That  is,  you  mean  to  say,"  remarked  Rudin, 
carelessly,  "  that  which  La  Rochefoucauld  said 
long  before  your  day :  '  Believe  in  yourself,  and 
others  will  believe  in  you.'  What  the  object  is 
in  mixing  a  tail  up  with  it,  I  do  not  understand." 

"  You  must  permit  every  one,"  began  Volyn- 
tzeff,  sharply —  "  you  must  permit  every  one  to 
express  himself  as  he  sees  fit.  People  talk  about 
despotism.  In  my  opinion,  there  is  no  worse  des- 
potism than  that  of  the  so-called  clever  people. 
May  the  devil  take  them!  " 

Volyntzeff's  sally  astonished  everybody;  all  re- 

126 


RUDIN 

lapsed  into  silence.  Riidin  tried  to  look  at  him, 
but  could  not  sustain  his  gaze,  turned  away, 
smiled,  and  did  not  open  his  mouth. 

"Ehe!  and  you're  a  bob-tailed  one  also!" 
thought  Pigasoff ;  but  Xatalya's  soul  sank  within 
her  for  terror.  Darya  ]Mikhailovna  stared  at 
VolyntzefF  for  a  long  time  in  amazement,  and 
at  last  was  the  first  to  speak.  She  began  to  tell 
a  story  about  some  remarkable  dog  or  other  be- 
longing to  ^Minister  N.  X 

VolyntzefF  went  away  soon  after  dinner.  As 
he  was  bidding  farewell  to  Natalya,  he  could 
endure  it  no  longer,  and  said  to  her: 

"  Why  are  you  so  confused,  as  though  you  were 
guilty?  You  cannot  be  guilty  in  any  one's 
eyes!      .... 

Xatalya  understood  nothing,  and  only  fol- 
lowed him  with  her  eyes.  Before  tea,  Rudin  ap- 
proached her,  and,  bending  over  the  table  as 
though  he  were  examining  the  newspapers,  he 
whispered: 

"  All  this  is  like  a  dream,  is  it  not?  I  must  see 
you  alone,  without  fail,  ....  if  only  for  a  mo- 
ment." lie  turned  to  Mile.  Boncourt.  "  Here," 
lie  said  to  her,  "  is  the  fcuilleton  which  you  M^ere 
looking  for."  And,  again  ])ending  toward  Na- 
talya, he  added  in  a  whisper:  "  Try  to  be  by  the 
terrace  in  the  lihic  arl)our  about  ten  o'clock.  I 
shall  be  waiting  i'or  you."  .... 

Pigasoff  was  the  hero  of  the  evening.     Rudin 

127 


RUDIN 

yielded  tlie  field  to  him.  lie  greatly  amused 
Dtirya  Mikhailovna;  first  he  told  a  story  ahoiit 
one  of  his  neighbours  who,  after  having  been  hen- 
pecked by  his  wife  for  thirty  years,  had  become 
so  effeminate  that  one  day,  when  he  was  crossing 
a  small  puddle  in  Pigasoff's  presence,  he  put  his 
hand  behind  him  and  pulled  aside  the  skirts  of 
his  coat,  as  women  do  with  their  petticoats.  Then 
he  turned  to  another  landed  proprietor  who  had 
at  first  been  a  Freemason,  then  a  misanthrope, 
and  then  had  wanted  to  become  a  banker. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  be  a  Freemason,  Phi- 
lipp  Stepanitch?"  PigasoiF  asked  him. 

"  Every  one  knows  how:  I  wore  a  long  nail  on 
my  fifth  finger." 

But  Darya  Mikhailovna  laughed  most  of  all 
when  Pigasoff  set  out  to  argue  about  love,  and 
to  assert  that  women  had  sighed  after  him;  also, 
that  one  fiery  German  girl  had  even  called  him 
"  appetising  little  Afrikjin "  and  "  my  dear 
little  falcon."  Darya  INIikhailovna  laughed,  but 
PigasofF  was  not  lying;  he  really  had  a  right  to 
boast  of  his  conquests.  He  declared  that  nothing 
can  be  easier  than  to  make  any  woman  you  like 
fall  in  love  with  you.  All  that  is  necessary  is  to 
repeat  to  her,  for  ten  days  in  succession,  that 
paradise  is  in  her  lips  and  bliss  in  her  eyes,  and 
that  all  other  women  are  simple  rags  in  compari- 
son with  her;  and  on  the  eleventh  day  she  herself 
"will  say  that  paradise  is  in  her  mouth  and  bliss 

128 


RUDIX 

in  her  eyes,  and  will  fall  in  love  with  you.  All 
sorts  of  things  happen  in  the  world.  Who  knows? 
Perhaps  PigasoiF  was  right. 

At  half-past  nine  Rudin  was  already  in  the 
arbour.  The  little  stars  had  just  come  forth  in 
the  pale  and  distant  depths  of  the  sky;  the  west 
was  still  aglow — there  the  horizon  seemed  both 
clearer  and  purer;  the  crescent  moon  gleamed 
like  gold  athwart  the  black  network  of  the  weep- 
ing birch.  The  other  trees  either  stood  like  surly 
giants,  with  a  thousand  apertures  after  the  fash- 
ion of  eyes,  or  were  merged  into  dense,  gloomy 
masses.  Not  a  single  leaf  was  stirring;  the  top- 
most branches  of  the  lilacs  and  acacias  seemed  to 
be  listening  to  something  and  stretching  them- 
selves out  into  the  warm  air.  The  house  rose  in 
a  dark  mass  hard  by;  the  long,  illuminated  win- 
dows in  it  were  depicted  as  spots  of  reddish  light. 
The  evening  was  mild  and  still,  but  a  repressed, 
passionate  sigli  seemed  to  hover  in  this  stillness. 

Rudin  stood  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast 
and  listened  with  strained  attention.  His  heart 
beat  violentlv,  and  he  involuntarilv  held  his 
breath.  At  last  light,  hurried  footsteps  became 
audible,  and  Xatjilya  entered  the  arbour. 

Rudin  rushed  toward  her,  and  seized  her  hands. 
They  were  as  cold  as  ice. 

"  Xatalya  Alexyeevna!  "  he  began,  in  an  agi- 
tated whisper,  "  T  wanted  to  see  you  ....  I 
conld  not  wait  until  to-morrow.     T  must  tell  you 


RUDIX 

- — wlmt  T  (lid  not  suspect — wliat  I  was  not  even 
conscious  of  this  morning — 1  love  you!" 

Natalya's  hand  trembled  weakly  in  his  hands. 

"1  love  you,"  he  re])eated;  "and  how  could 
I  so  long  deceive  myself — how  could  I  have 
failed  long  ago  to  divine  that  I  love  you!  .... 
And  you?  ....  Tell  me,  Natalya  Alexyeevna, 
your      .... 

Natalya  scarcely  drew  her  breath. 

"  You  see,  I  have  come  hither,"  she  said  at 
last. 

"  No;  tell  me,  do  you  love  me?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  ....  that  I  do  ...  ."  she 
whispered. 

Riidin  clasped  her  hands  still  more  firmly,  and 
tried  to  draw  her  to  him. 

Natalya  cast  a  swift  glance  aroimd  her. 

"  Let  me    go! — I  am  afraid — It  seems  to  me 

that  some  one  is  listening  to  us For  God's 

sake,  be  cautious.    Volyntzeff  divines  the  truth." 

"  Never  mind  him.  You  saw  that  I  did  not  an- 
swer  him    to-day Akh,    Natalya    Alex- 

yeevna,  how  happy  I  am!  Now  nothing  shall 
part  us." 

Natalya  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  Release  me,"  she  whispered;  "  it  is  time  for 
me  to  go." 

"  One  moment — "  began  Rudin 

"No;  release  me — release  me!"  .... 

*'  You  appear  to  be  afraid  of  me? " 

130 


RUDIN 

"  Xo ;  but  I  must  go  .  .  .  ." 

"  Then  repeat  at  least  once  more  that  .  .  .  ." 

"  You  say  that  you  are  happy?  "  inquired  Xa- 
talya. 

"I?  There  is  no  happier  man  in  the  world 
than  I!     Can  you  doubt  it?" 

Xatalya  raised  her  head.  Very  beautiful  was 
her  pale  face,  so  noble,  youthful,  and  agitated, 
in  the  mysterious  shadows  of  the  arbour,  in  the 
faint  light  which  fell  from  the  nocturnal  skies. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said —  "  I  will  be  yours!  " 

"  Oh,  God!  "...  exclaimed  Rudin. 

But  Natalya  evaded  him  and  departed.  Ru- 
din stood  still  for  a  little  while,  then  slowly 
emerged  from  the  arbour.  The  moon  brightly 
illuminated  his  face ;  over  his  lips  strayed  a  smile. 

"  I  am  happy,"  he  ejaculated  in  an  undertone. 
"  Yes,  I  am  happy,"  he  repeated,  as  though  de- 
sirous of  convincing  himself. 

lie  drew  his  body  up  erect,  shook  his  curls,  and 
walked  briskly  into  the  garden,  joyously  flourish- 
ing his  arms. 

But  meanwhile  the  bushes  were  quietly  parted 
in  the  lilac  arbour,  and  Pandalevsky  made  his  ap- 
pearance. He  ghuiced  cautiously  around,  shook 
his  head,  compressed  his  lips,  ejaculated  signifi- 
cantly: "  So  tliat  's  how  it  is,  sir.  This  must  be 
l)rought  to  the  knowledge  of  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna,"  and  disappeared. 


131 


VIII 

On  reaching  home  Volyntzeif  was  so  downcast 
and  gloomy,  answered  his  sister  so  unwiUingly, 
and  so  promptly  locked  himself  up  in  his  study, 
that  she  decided  to  send  a  mounted  messenger 
for  Lezhnyoff.  She  had  recourse  to  him  on  all 
perplexing  occasions.  Lezhnyoff  bade  the  man 
say  to  her  that  he  would  come  to  her  on  the 
morrow. 

By  morning,  Volyntzeff  had  not  cheered  up. 
After  tea  he  was  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for 
his  work,  but  stayed  at  home,  lay  down  on  the 
divan,  and  began  to  read  a  book,  which  infre- 
quently happened  with  him.  Volyntzeff  did  not 
feel  attracted  to  literature,  and  he  was  simply 
afraid  of  poetry.  "  That  is  as  incomprehensible 
as  poetry,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  and  in  support 
of  his  words  he  quoted  the  following  lines  from 
the  poet  Aibulat: 

*'  And  till  the  end  of  sorrowful  days 
Nor   trial   proud,   nor   reasoning, 
Shall  crumple  with  its  hand 
The   life   of   bloody   forget-me-nots." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  surveyed  her  brother  with 
alarm,  but  did  not  disturb  him  with  questions.    A 

132 


RUDIX 

carriage  drove  up  to  the  porch.  "  Well,"  she 
thought,  "thank  God!  there  is  LezhnyofF."  .  .  . 
A  servant  entered  and  announced  the  arrival  of 
Rudin. 

VolyntzefF  flung  his  book  on  the  floor  and 
raised  his  head. 

"  Who  has  come?  "  he  asked. 

"  Rudin,  Dmitry  Xikolaitch,"  repeated  the 
servant. 

Volyntzeff*  rose. 

"  Ask  him  in,"  he  said;  "  and  do  thou  leave  us, 
sister,"  he  added,  turning  to  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna. 

"  But  why?  "  she  began.  .  .  . 

"I  know  why,"  he  interrupted  irritably;  "I 
entreat  thee." 

Rudin  entered.  Volyntzefl*  bowed  coldly  to 
him  as  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
did  not  offer  him  his  hand. 

"You  did  not  expect  me;  confess  it,"  began 
Riidin,  and  laid  his  hat  on  the  window-sill. 

His  lips  quivered  slightly.  He  felt  awkward, 
but  he  endeavoured  to  conceal  his  confusion. 

"  I  flid  not  expect  you,  that  is  true,"  returned 
Volyntzeff*;  "after  yesterday,  I  should  sooner 
have  expected  some  one — with  a  commission  from 
you." 

"  T  understand  what  you  mean  to  convey,"  said 
Rudin,  seating  himself;  "and  T  am  greatly  de- 
lighted at  your  frankness.     It  is  much  better  so. 

133 


KUDIN 

I  have  come  to  you  as  to  a  man  of  noble  char- 
acter." 

"  Cannot  we  dispense  with  comphments? "  re- 
marked Volyntzeff. 

"  I  wish  to  explain  to  you  why  I  have  come." 

"  You  and  I  are  acquaintances ;  why  should 
you  not  come  to  my  house?  INIoreover,  this  is  not 
the  first  time  that  you  have  favoured  me  with  a 
visit." 

"  I  have  come  to  you  as  to  a  noble  man — as  to 
a  noble  man,"  repeated  Rudin,  "  and  I  now  wish 

to   submit  myself  to  your  judgment I 

have  entire  confidence  in  you " 

"  But  what  is  the  point?  "  said  Volyntzeff,  who 
was  still  standing  in  his  former  position  and 
staring  gloomily  at  Rudin,  now  and  then  tugging 
at  the  tips  of  his  moustache. 

"  Permit  me I  have  come  in  order  to 

have  a  definitive  explanation;  but,  nevertheless, 
that  cannot  be  done  in  an  instant." 

"Why  not?" 

"  A  third  person  is  concerned  here."  .  .  . 

"What  third  person?" 

"  Sergyei  Pavlitch,  you  understand  me." 

"  Dmitry  Nikolaitch,  I  do  not  understand  you 
in  the  least." 

"  It  suits  you.  ..." 

"  It  suits  me  to  have  you  speak  without  circum- 
locution! "  put  in  Volyntzeff. 

He  was  beginning  to  be  seriously  angry. 

134 


RUDIN 

Riidin  frowned. 

"  ^"ery  well  ....  we  are  alone.  ...  I  must 
tell  you — however,  you  probably  already  divine  " 
(VolyntzefF  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently) 
— "  I  must  tell  vou  that  I  love  Xatalva  Alex- 
yeevna,  and  have  the  right  to  assume  that  she 
loves  me  also." 

VolyntzefF  turned  pale,  but  made  no  reply, 
walked  to  the  window,  and  turned  away. 

"  You  understand,  Sergyei  Pavlitch,"  went  on 
Rudin,  "  that  if  I  were  not  convinced  .  .  .  ." 

"  Upon  m}'  word,"  interrupted  Volyntzeff , 
hastily,  "  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it.  .  .  . 
Very  well!  ^ly  good  wishes!  The  only  thing  I 
am  surprised  at  is,  what  the  devil  you  should  have 
taken  it  into  your  head  for  to  favour  me  with  a 

call  to  tell  me  this  piece  of  news What 

have  I  to  do  with  it  ?  What  business  is  it  of  mine 
whom  you  love  and  who  loves  you?  I  simply  can- 
not understand." 

VolyntzefF  continued  to  stare  out  of  the  win- 
dow.    His  voice  sounded  dull. 

Rudin  rose. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Sergyei  Pavlitch,  why  I  de- 
cided to  come  to  you,  why  I  did  not  even  con- 
sider that  I  liad  a  right  to  conceal  from  you  our 
....  our  mutual  affection.  I  esteem  you  too 
profoundly — tliat  is  why  I  came.  I  did  not  wish 
....  neitlier  of  us  wished — to  play  a  comedy 
before  you.     ^'our  sentiments  toward  Xatalva 

135 


RUDIN 

Alcxyccvna  were  known  to  me Believe 

me,  1  know  my  own  value;  1  know  liow  little  wor- 
thy I  am  to  usurp  your  place  in  her  heart;  but  if 
it  was  fated  to  occur,  can  it  possibly  be  better  to 
use  cunning,  to  deceive,  to  dissimuhite?  Can  it 
possibly  be  better  to  subject  one's  self  to  misun- 
derstandings, or  even  to  the  possibilitj'-  of  scenes 
like  tlie  one  which  took  place  yesterda}"  at  dinner? 
Tell  me,  Sergyei  Pavlitch?  " 

Volyntzeff  folded  his  arms  on  his  breast,  as 
though  striving  to  subdue  himself. 

"  Sergyei  Pavlitch!  "  went  on  Rudin,  "  I  have 

grieved  you ;  I  feel  it But  understand  us 

....  understand  that  we  had  no  other  means  of 
proving  to  you  our  esteem — of  proving  that  we 
know  how  to  value  your  straightforward  nobility. 
Frankness— complete  frankness — with  any  other 
man  would  be  out  of  place;  but  with  you  it  be- 
comes a  duty.  It  is  pleasant  to  us  to  think  that 
our  secret  is  in  vour  hands." 

Volyntzeff  laughed  in  a  constrained  way. 

"  Thanks  for  vour  confidence!  "  he  exclaimed; 
"  although  I  beg  you  to  note  that  I  did  not  wish 
to  know  your  secret,  or  to  betray  my  own  to  you ; 
you  are  making  use  of  it  as  though  it  were  your 
own  But  pardon  me;  you  speak  as  though  on 
behalf  of  both.  Consequently,  I  may  assume  that 
Xatalya  Alexyeevna  is  aware  of  ^''our  visit,  and 
of  the  object  of  your  visit?  " 

Rudin  became  slightly  confused. 

136 


RUDIX 


No;  I  did  not  communicate  my  intention  to 
Natalva  Alexveevna ;  but  I  know  that  she  shares 
my  manner  of  thought." 

"  All  that  is  very  fine,"  began  Volyntzeff ,  af- 
ter a  brief  silence,  during  which  he  had  drummed 
on  the  window-pane  with  his  fingers ;  "  although 
I  must  confess  that  it  would  have  been  a  great 
deal  better  had  you  displayed  less  esteem  for  me. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  care  a  devil's  rap  for 
your  respect ;  but  v.hat  do  you  want  of  me  now?  " 

"  I  want  nothing  ....  or,  no!  I  do  want  one 
thing :  I  want  you  not  to  regard  me  as  a  wily  and 

crafty  man ;  that  vou  should  understand  me 

I  hope  that  you  already  have  no  doubt  as  to  my 

sincerity I  wish,   Sergyei  Pavlitch,  that 

we  should  part  as  friends  ....  that  you  should 
offer  me  your  hand  as  heretofore."  .  .  . 

And  Rudin  stepped  up  to  Volyntzeff. 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Volyntzeff, 
turning  away  and  retreating  a  pace.  "  I  am 
ready  to  do  full  justice  to  your  intentions;  all 
that  is  very  fine,  we  will  assume, — even  lofty, — 
but  we  are  simple  folks;  we  eat  our  gingerbread 
without  decorations;  we  are  not  in  a  condition 
to  follow  the  flight  of  such  lofty   intellects  as 

yours That  which  seems  sincere  to  you, 

strikes  us  as  intrusive  and  indiscreet That 

which  is  simple  and  clear  to  you,  is  intricate  and 

obscure  to  us You  make  your  boast  that 

we  dissemble;  how  are  we  to  understand  you? 

1.37 


KUDIN 

You  must  excuse  me.    I  can  neither  regard  you 

as  a  friend,  nor  will  I  give  you  my  hand 

This  may  he  petty;  hut  then  I  am  petty  myself." 

Kudin  took  his  hat  from  the  window-sill. 

"  Sergyei  Pavlitch!"  he  said  sorrowfulh^, 
"  farewell;  I  have  been  deceived  in  my  expecta- 
tions. My  visit,  in  reality,  is  rather  strange ;  but 
I  did  hope  that  you  .  .  .  ."  (VolyntzefF  made  an 
impatient  gesture)  .  .  .  .  "  Pardon  me,  I  will  say 
no  more  about  that.  Taking  everything  into  con- 
sideration, I  see  that  it  is  true.  You  are  in  the 
right,  and  you  could  not  have  acted  otherwise. 
Farewell,  and  permit  me  at  least  once  more,  for 
the  last  time,  to  assure  you  of  the  purity  of  my 
motives I  am  convinced  of  your  discre- 
tion  " 

"This  is  too  much!"  exclaimed  Volyntzeff, 
and  shook  with  rage.  "  I  have  not  asked  you  for 
your  confidence  in  the  least,  and  therefore  you 
have  no  right  to  rely  on  my  discretion !  " 

Rudin  wanted  to  say  something,  but  merely 
flung  his  hands  wide  apart,  bowed,  and  withdrew  r 
while  Volyntzeff  thre^v  himself  on  the  couch  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

"May  I  come  in?"  Alexandra  Pavlovna's 
voice  made  itself  heard  at  the  door. 

VolyntzefF  did  not  immediately  reply,  and 
stealthily  drew  his  hand  across  his  face.  "  No, 
Siisha,"  he  said,  in  a  slightly  unnatural  voice; 
"  wait  a  little  longer." 

138 


RUDIN 

Half  an  hour  later  Alexandra  Pavlovna  again 
came  to  the  door. 

"  Mikhailo  ^likliailitch  has  come,"  she  said; 
"  wouldst  thou  like  to  see  him?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  VolyntzefF;  "  send  him  hither." 

Lezhnj^ofF  entered. 

"  What 's  the  matter— art  thou  ill?  "  he  asked, 
as  he  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair  beside  the 
couch. 

VolyntzefF  raised  himself,  leaned  on  his  elbow, 
gazed  for  a  long,  long  time  into  the  face  of 
his  friend,  and  then  and  there  imparted  to  him 
his  entire  conversation  with  Riidin,  word  for 
Avord.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  never  given 
Lezhnyoff  even  a  hint  as  to  his  feelings  with  re- 
gard to  Xatalya,  altliough  he  had  divined  that 
they  were  no  secret  to  him. 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  thou  hast  amazed  me," 
said  Le/hnvofF,  as  soon  as  VolyntzefF  had  finished 
his  narration.  "  I  expected  many  queer  things 
of  him,  but  this  is  quite  too.  .  .  .  However,  I 
recognise  him  even  here." 

"  Good  heavens!  "  said  the  excited  VolyntzefF; 
"this  is  downriglit  insolence!  Wliy,  I  came 
near  flinging  him  out  of  the  window!  Did  he 
want  to  brag  to  me,  or  lias  he  turned  coward? 
And  on  what  grounds?  How  could  he  })ring  him- 
self to  go  to  a  man !".... 

VolyntzefF  threw  liis  arms  behind  his  head  and 
relapsed  into  silence. 

139 


RUDIN 

**  No,  my  dear  fellow,  that 's  not  it,"  returned 
Lezhnyoff,  ealnily.  "  Thou  wilt  not  believe  me, 
but  he  did  it  from  a  good  motive.  Really,  ....  it 
is  noble  and  frank,  thou  seest, — well ;  and  an  op- 
portunity presents  itself  to  talk,  to  launch  into 
elocjuence ;  and  that 's  what  we  require,  that 's 
what  we  are  not  capable  of  living  without.  .  .  . 
Okh,  his  tongue  is  his  enemy,  ....  Well ;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  is  his  servant." 

"  Thou  canst  not  imagine  the  triumph  with 
which  he  entered  and  talked !  "  .... 

"  Well,  he  could  n't  get  along  without  that. 
He  buttons  up  his  coat  as  though  he  were  fulfill- 
ing a  sacred  duty.  I  'd  like  to  put  him  in  an  un- 
inhabited prison,  and  w^atch  him  from  round  the 
corner,  to  see  how  he  would  manage  there.  And 
he  prates  of  simplicity!  " 

"  But  tell  me,  mv  dear  fellow,  for  God's  sake," 
asked  VolyntzefF,  "  what  this  is?  Is  it  philos- 
ophy? " 

"  How  shall  I  explain  it  to  you?  On  the  one 
hand,  if  you  like,  philosophy  is  precisely  what  it 
is;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  that  at  all. 
It  is  not  proper  to  unload  all  sorts  of  trash,  even 
on  philosophy." 

VolyntzefF  cast  a  glance  at  him. 

"  And  was  he  lying,  think  you?  " 

"  Xo,  my  son ;  he  was  not  lying.  But  dost  thou 
know  what?  We  have  talked  enough  about  this. 
Come  on,  my  dear  fellow ;  let 's  smoke  our  pipes 

140 


RUDIN 

and  invite  Alexandra  Pavlovna  hither In 

her  presence  it  will  be  pleasanter  to  talk  and  easier 
to  liold  our  tongues.    She  will  give  us  some  tea." 

"  Very  well,"  returned  Volyntzeff .  "  Sasha, 
come  in!  "  he  shouted. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  entered.  He  seized  her 
hand  and  pressed  it  firmly  to  his  lips. 

Rudin  returned  home  in  a  confused  and  strange 
state  of  mind.  He  was  vexed  with  himself;  he 
reproached  himself  for  unpardonable  rashness, 
for  boyish  behaviour.  Some  one  has  truthfully 
said:  There  is  nothing  more  painful  than  the 
consciousness  that  one  has  just  perpetrated  a 
piece  of  stupidity. 

Repentance  gnawed  Riidin. 

"  The  devil  possessed  me,"  he  whispered 
througli  his  teeth,  "  to  go  to  that  country  squire. 
A  pretty  inspiration  I  had,  truly.  I  merely  in- 
vited insolence !".... 

But  something  unusual  had  taken  place  in  Da- 
rya ISIikhai'lovna's  house.  The  mistress  of  the 
house  herself  had  not  made  her  appearance  dur- 
ing the  entire  morning,  and  she  did  not  come  out 
to  dinner.  According  to  the  assertion  of  Panda- 
levsky,  the  sole  person  who  was  admitted  to  lier 
presence,  she  had  a  headache.  Of  Natalya,  also, 
Rudin  hardly  caught  a  glimpse;  she  sat  in  her 

own  room  with  ^Ille.  Boncourt When  she 

met  him  in  the  dining-room  she  looked  at  him  so 

141 


RUDIN 

sadly  that  his  heart  shuddered.  Her  face  was  dis- 
torted, as  thoiit>li  a  calamity  had  befallen  her  since 
the  preceding  day.  The  anguish  of  ill-defined 
forebodings  began  to  torment  Rudin.  In  order  to 
distract  his  thoughts  in  some  manner,  he  busied 
himself  with  Basistoff,  chatted  a  great  deal  with 
him,  and  found  in  him  an  ardent,  vivacious  young 
fellow  with  enthusiastic  hopes  and  a  faith  as  yet 
unshaken.  Toward  evening,  Darya  ISIikhailovna 
showed  herself  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  draw- 
ing-ioom.  She  treated  Rudin  amiably,  but  held 
herself,  in  some  sort,  akx)f,  and  smiled  and 
frowned  by  turns,  talked  through  her  nose,  and 

chiefly  in  hints She  fairly  reeked  with  the 

atmosphere  of  the  court  lady.  Of  late  she  had,  as 
it  were,  grown  rather  cool  toward  Rudin.  "  What 
enigma  is  this? "  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  gazed 
askance  at  her,  with  her  head  erect  and  even 
thrown  backward. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait  for  the  solution  of 
this  enigma.  On  his  way  to  his  room,  at  mid- 
night, he  passed  along  a  dark  corridor.  Suddenly 
some  one  thrust  a  note  into  his  hand.  He  glanced 
round.  A  young  girl — Natalya's  maid,  it  seemed 
to  him — was  retreating.  He  reached  his  room, 
dismissed  his  man,  opened  the  note,  and  read  the 
following  lines  traced  by  Natalya's  hand: 

"  Come  to-morrow  morning,  not  later  than  seven 
o'clock,  to  Avdiukh's  pond,  beliind  the  oak  forest.  No 
other  time  is  possible      This  will  be  our  last  meeting; 

142 


RUDIN 

ever^-thing  will  be  at  an  end  if.  .  .  .  Come.     We  must 

reach  a  decision 

"  P.S. — If  I  do  not  come  it  will  mean  that  we  shall  not 
meet  again ;  in  that  case  I  shall  let  you  know." 

Rudin  became  thoughtful,  turned  the  note  about 
in  his  hands,  laid  it  under  his  pillow,  un- 
dressed, got  into  bed  but  did  not  soon  fall  asleep, 
slept  lightly,  and  it  was  not  yet  five  o'clock  when 
he  awoke. 


IX 

Avdiukh's  pond,  beside  which  Natalya  had  fixed 
the  meeting  with  Riidin,  had  long  since  ceased  to 
be  a  pond.  Thirty  years  before  the  dam  had 
given  way,  and  since  that  time  it  had  been  aban- 
doned. Only  from  the  flat,  even  bottom  of  the 
ravine,  formerly  covered  with  greasy  slime,  and 
from  the  remains  of  the  dam,  could  it  be  divined 
that  a  pond  had  once  existed  there.  There  had, 
also,  once  been  a  farm-house  there.  It  had  long 
since  disappeared.  Two  huge  pine-trees  called  it 
to  remembrance;  the  wind  was  forever  rustling 
and  humming  in  their  lofty,  sparse  verdure. 
Mysterious  rumours  were  in  circulation  among 
the  country-people  about  a  terrible  crime  which 
was  said  to  have  been  perpetrated  at  their  base. 
It  was  even  asserted  that  neither  of  them  would 
fall  without  causing  the  death  of  some  one;  that 
a  third  pine  had  once  stood  there  in  former  days, 
which  had  fallen  during  a  tempest  and  had 
crushed  a  little  girl.  The  whole  locality  round 
about  the  ancient  pond  was  regarded  as  ac- 
cursed :  empty  and  bare,  but  obscure  and  gloomy 
even  on  a  sunny  day,  it  seemed  still  more  ob- 
scure and  gloomy  from  the  vicinity  of  the  de- 

7  44 


RtJDIN 

crepit  oak  forest,  which  had  long  since  died  out 
and  dried  up.  The  sparse  grey  skeletons  of  the 
vast  trees  rose  aloft  like  melancholy  spectres 
above  the  low  undergrowth  of  bushes.  It  was 
painful  to  look  at  them;  they  seemed  like  mali- 
cious old  men  who  had  met  together  and  were 
plotting  something  evil.  A  narrow,  barely  indi- 
cated path  wound  about  on  one  side.  Xo  one 
passed  Avdiukli's  pond  without  special  necessity. 
Xatalva  had  deliberately  selected  this  isolated 
place.  It  was  not  more  than  half  a  verst  distant 
from  Darya  Mikhailovna's  house. 

The  sun  had  long  been  up  when  Riidin  arrived 
at  Avdiiikh's  pond;  but  it  was  not  a  cheerful 
morning.  Dense  clouds  of  a  milky  hue  covered 
the  whole  heavens;  the  wind,  whistling  and  moan- 
ing, was  driving  them  swiftly  onward.  Riidin  be- 
gan to  pace  to  and  fro  along  the  dam,  wliich  was 
covered  with  adliesive  burdock  and  blackened  net- 
tles. These  meetings,  these  new  sensations,  en- 
grossed yet  also  agitated  him,  especially  after  the 
note  of  the  night  before.  He  perceived  that  a 
catastrophe  was  a]i])roacliing,  and  he  M^as  secretly 
])ertvH*bed  in  spirit,  altliough  no  one  would  have 
thf)nght  so  on  o])serving  the  concentrated  de- 
cision wherewith  he  folded  liis  arms  upon  his 
breast  and  rolled  his  eyes  about.  Pigasoff  had 
once  observed,  cjuite  justly,  concerning  hini,  that 
his  head  was  incessantly  nodding  about,  like  that 
of  a  Chinese  idol.     But  from  the  liead  alone,  no 

145 


RUDIN 

matter  how  powerful  it  may  be,  it  is  difficult  for 
a  man  to  find  out  what  is  taking  place  within  him- 
self  liiidin — clever,  penetrating  Rudin — 

was  not  in  a  position  to  say  with  certainty  whether 
he  reallv  loved  Natalya,  whether  he  were  suffer- 
ing,  whether  he  would  suffer  on  parting  with 
her.  Why,  without  pretending  to  be  a  Love- 
lace,— one  must  render  him  that  justice, — had  he 
led  astray  a  poor  young  girl?  Why  was  he  wait- 
ing for  her  with  secret  trepidation?  To  this  there 
is  but  one  answer:  No  one  is  so  easily  carried 
away  as  the  unimpassioned  people. 

He  walked  on  the  dam,  but  Natalya  hastened 
toward  him,  straight  across  the  meadow,  on  the 
damp  grass. 

"  INIy  lady!  My  lady!  you  will  wet  your  feet," 
said  her  maid  Masha,  who  could  hardly  keep  up 
with  her. 

Natalya  paid  no  heed  to  her,  and  ran  on  with- 
out looking  back. 

"  Akli,  if  only  no  one  sees  us!  "  Masha  kept  re- 
peating. "  And  't  is  a  wonder  how  we  got  out 
of  the  house.     If  only  mam'zell  does  not  wake 

up !  .  .  .  .  Luckily,    it    is  n't    far And 

there  he  is  already — waiting,"  she  added,  sud- 
denly catching  sight  of  Rudin's  stately  form, 
standing  in  a  picturesque  attitude  on  the  dam. 
"  Only,  he  oughtn't  to  stand  so  on  the  mound; 
he  ought  to  have  descended  into  the  ravine." 

Natalya  halted. 

146 


RUDIN 

"  Wait  here,  ]Masha,  by  the  pine-trees,"  she 
said,  and  descended  to  the  pond. 

Riidin  approached  her,  and  stopped  short  in 
amazement.  Never  yet  had  he  beheld  such  an 
expression  on  her  face.  Her  brows  were  con- 
tracted, her  hps  were  tightly  compressed,  her 
eyes  gazed  straight  forward,  and  sternly. 

"  Dmitry  Xikolaitch,"  she  began,  "  we  have 
no  time  to  lose.  I  have  come  for  five  min- 
utes. I  must  tell  you  that  mama  knows  all. 
]SIr.  Pandalevsky  was  watching  us  day  before 
yesterday,  and  has  told  her  about  our  meeting. 
He  always  has  been  a  spy  for  mama.  Last  night 
she  summoned  me  to  her." 

"  My  God!  "  exclaimed  Rudin.  "  This  is  ter- 
rible! ....  What  did  vour  mother  say  to  you?  " 

"  She  was  not  angry  with  me ;  she  did  not  scold 
me — she  only  upbraided  me  for  my  giddiness." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes;  and  she  announced  to  me  that  she 
would  rather  see  me  dead  than  your  wife." 

"Can  she  have  said  that?" 

"  Yes;  and  she  added  tliat  you  yourself  were 
not  in  the  least  desirous  of  marrying  me;  that 
you  had  only  been  paying  court  to  me  idly,  out 
of  ennui,  and  that  she  had  not  expected  this  of 
you;  that,  moreover,  she  herself  was  to  bhime 
for  having  jKi-niitted  me  to  see  so  much  of 
you  ....  tliat  she  liad  had  confidence  in  my 
good     sense, — that     1     had     greatly     astonished 

147 


RtJDIN 

her  ....  and  I  do  not  remember  all  she  said 
to  me." 

Natalya  uttered  all  this  in  a  certain  even,  al- 
most toneless  voice. 

"  And  you,  Natiilya  Alexyeevna,  what  reply 
did  you  make  to  her?"  asked  Riidin. 

"  AVhat  reply  did  I  make  to  her? "  repeated 
Natalya "  What  do  you  mean  to  do  now?  " 

"My  God!  My  God!"  returned  Rudin. 
"  This  is  cruel!  So  soon!  ....  such  a  sudden 
blow!  ....  And  your  mother  went  into  such  a 
rage? 

"  Yes yes,  she  will  not  hear  of  you." 

"  This  is  dreadful!    So  there  is  no  hope?  " 

"  None  whatever." 

"Why  are  we  so  unhappy!  That  abominable 
Pandalevsky!  ....  You  ask  me,  Natalya  Alex- 
yeevna, what  I  intend  to  do?    My  head  is  in  a 

whirl — I  can  make  no  plans I  am  conscious 

only  of  my  misfortune.  ...  I  am  amazed  that  you 
can  preserve  your  coolness!" 

"  Do  you  think  I  find  it  easy?  "  said  Natalya. 

Riidin  began  to  pace  the  dam.  Natalya  never 
took  her  eyes  from  him. 

"  Your  mother  did  not  question  you?  "  he  said 
at  last. 

"  She  did  ask  me  whether  I  loved  you." 

"Well  ....  and  you?" 

Natalya  remained  silent  for  a  little.  "  I  did 
not  tell  a  falsehood." 

148 


RUDIX 

Rudin  took  her  hand. 

"  Always,  in  everything,  noble  and  magnani- 
mous! Oh,  the  heart  of  a  young  girl  is  pure  gold! 
But  did  vour  mother  really  announce  to  you  so 
decisively  her  will  in  regard  to  the  possibility 
of  our  marriage?" 

"Yes,  decisively.  I  have  already  told  you; 
she  is  convinced  that  you  yourself  are  not  think- 
ing of  marrying  me." 

"  So  she  regards  me  as  a  deceiver!  How  have 
I  deserved  this?  " 

And  Riidin  clutched  at  his  head. 

"Dmitry    Xikolaitch,"    said    Natalya,    "we 
are  wasting  time  to   no   purpose.      Remember,  - 
we    are    seeing    each    other    for    the    last    time. 
I   have  not  come  hither  to  weep,   to  complain 
— you    see,    I    am    not    weeping — I    came    for  / 
advice." 

"  But  what  advice  can  I  give  you,  Xatalya 

Alexyeevna?  " 

"  What  advice?  You  are  a  man.  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  trust  you,  I  shall  trust  you  to  the  end. 
Tell  me,  wluit  are  vour  intentions?  " 

"  My  intentions?  Your  mother  will,  in  all 
pro])al)ility,  turn  me  out  of  the  house." 

"  Possibly.  She  announced  to  me  yesterday 
that  I  must  break  off  accjuaintance  with  you.  .... 
But  you  do  not  answer  my  question." 

"What  question?" 

"  What  do  you  tliink  we  ougiit  to  do  now?  " 

149 


RUDIN 

"  What  ought  we  to  do?  "  returned  Hiidin. 
j  "  Submit,  of  course." 

"Submit!"    repeated    Natalya,    slowly,    and 
I  her  lips  paled. 

"  SuJ)mit_tQ_iate,"  went  on  Rudin.     "  What 
is  there  to  do?    1  know  but  too  well  how  bitter, 
painful,  intolerable  it  is;  but  judge  for  your- 
self, Natalya  Alexyeevna.    I  am  poor.  ...  I  can 
work,  it  is  true;  but  even  were  1  a  wealthy  man, 
would  you  be  capable  of  enduring  the  enforced 
rupture  with  your  family,  the  wrath  of  your  mo- 
ther? ....  No,  Natalya  Alexyeevna;  that  is  not  to 
'  be  thought  of.     Obviously,  we  are  not  fated  to 
J  live    together,    and    the    happiness   of    which    I 
I  dreamed  is  not  for  me!  " 

Natalya  suddenly  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  fell  to  weeping.  Riidin  approached 
her. 

"Natalya  Alexyeevna!    Dear  Natalya!"  he 
began,  with  fervour.     "  Do  not  weep,  for  God's 
sake!    Do  not  torture  me;  cheer  up." 
Natalya  raised  her  head. 

"  You  tell  me  to  cheer  up,"  she  began,  and  her 
^   eyes  flashed  through  her  tears.    "  I  am  not  weep- 
ing over  that  which  you  suppose That  does 

not  pain  me;  what  pains  me  is,  that  I  have  been 

deceived  in  you What!   I  come  to  you  for 

advice,  and  at  what  a  moment! — and  your  first 
word  is — '  Submit.'     Submit!  ....  So  that  is  the 
way  you  apply  to  practice  your  explanations  of 
\  freedom,  of  sacrifices  A\'hich.  ..." 

150 


RUDIN 

Her  voice  broke. 

"  But,  Xatalya  Alexyeevna,"  began  the  dis- 
concerted Riidin,  "  remember  ....  I  do  not 
renounce  my  words  ....  only.  ..." 

"  You  asked  me,"  she  went  on,  with  renewed 
force,  "  what  answer  I  made  to  my  mother  when 
she  declared  to  me  that  she  would  sooner  consent 
to  my  death  than  to  my  marriage  with  you.  I 
answered  her  that  I  would  sooner  die  than  marry 

any  one  else But  you  say, '  Submit '  !  So  she 

was  right ;  you  really  have  been  making  sport  of 
me,  through  the  lack  of  something  to  do,  because 
you  were  bored.  ..." 

"  I  swear  to  you,  Xatalya  Alexyeevna,  .... 
I  assure  you.  ..."  repeated  Rudin. 

But  she  did  not  listen  to  him. 

"  Why  did  not  you  stop  me?  Why  did  you 
yourself.  .  .  .  Or  did  you  not  anticipate  any 
obstacles?  I  am  ashamed  to  speak  of  this — but, 
you  see,  everything  is  at  an  end  now." 

"  You  must  calm  yourself,  Natalya  Alex- 
yeevna," Rudin  began.  "  We  must  consider  to- 
gether what  means.  ..." 

"  You  liave  talked  so  often  of  self-sacrifice,"  / 
she  interrupted ;  "  but,  do  you  know,  if  you  had 
said  to  me  to-day,  just  now,  '  I  love  thee,  but  I 
cannot  marry  thee;  I  cannot  answer  for  tlie  fu- 
ture. Give  me  thy  hand  and  follow  me  ' — do  you 
know  that  I  would  have  gone  with  you;  do  you 
know  that  I  had  made  uj)  my  mind  to  everything? 
But,  in  truth,  it  is  a  long  way  from  words  to  -f 

151 


RUDIN 

4^  deeds,  and  you  have  lost  courage  now,  just  as 
you  did  day  before  yesterday,  at  dinner,  in  the 

^    presence  of  A'olyntzeff." 

Tlie  colour  flew  to  Rudin's  face.  Natalya's 
unexpected  enthusiasm  had  astounded  him;  but 
her  last  words  had  stung  his  self-love. 

"  You  are  too  much  irritated  now,  Natalya 
Alexyeevna,"  he  began.  "  You  cannot  under- 
stand how  cruelly  you  are  wounding  me.  I 
H  hope  that,  in  time,  you  will  do  me  justice;  you 
will  understand  what  it  has  cost  me  to  reject  that 
happiness  wliich,  as  you  yoin-self  have  said,  im- 
posed upon  me  no  obligations.  Your  peace  of 
mind  is  more  precious  to  me  than  anything  in 
the  world,  and  I  should  be  the  vilest  of  men  if 
I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  take  advantage 
of  .  .  .  ." 

"  Perhaps,  perhaps,"  interrupted  Natalya; 
"  perhaps  you  are  right;  I  do  not  know  what  I 
am  saying.  But  hitherto  I  have  trusted  you,  I 
have  believed  your  every  word.  .  .  Henceforth, 
be  so  good  as  to  weigh  your  words,  do  not  utter 
them  to  the  winds.  When  I  told  you  that  I 
loved  you,  I  knew  what  that  word  meant:  I 
was  ready  for  anything.  .  .  .  Now,  all  that  re- 
mains for  me  to  do,  is  to  thank  you  for  the  les- 
son— and  to  bid  you  f areweJl !  " 

"  Stop,  for  God's  sake,  Natalya  Alexyeevna, 
I  entreat  you.     I  do  not  deserve  your  scorn,  I 

\   swear  to  you  that  I  do  not.     Put  yourself  in 

1.52 


RUDIN 

my  position.  I  am  responsible  for  you  to  my- 
self also.  If  I  did  not  love  you  with  devoted 
affection — yes,  my  God!  I  would,  myself,  have 
immediately  proposed  to  you  to  elope  with 
me.  .  .  Sooner  or  later,  your  mother  would  for- 
give us  .  .  .  and  then  ...  But  before  thinking  of 
my  own  happiness  .  .  ." 

He  paused.  Xatalya's  gaze,  fixed  straight 
upon  him,  confused  him. 

"  You  are  trying  to  prove  to  me  that  you  are 
an  honest  man,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch!  "  she  said: — 
"  I  do  not  doubt  it.  You  are  not  capable  of  act- 
ing from  calculation;  but  did  I  wish  to  convince 
myself  of  that,  was  it  for  that  that  I  came 
hither.  .  .  ." 

"  I  did  not  expect,  Xatalya  Alexyeevna  .  . .  ." 

"All!  There  you  have  made  a  slip  of  the 
tongue!  Yes,  you  did  not  expect  all  this — you 
did  not  know  me.  Do  not  disturb  yourself  .... 
you  do  not  love  me,  and  I  force  myself  on  no 
one. 

"  I  do  love  you!  "  exclaimed  Rudin. 

"Possiblv;  but  how  do  vou  love  me!  I  re- 
ineniber  all  your  words,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch. 
Remember,  you  said  to  me:  '  witiiout  complete  '^ 
e(juality,  there  is  no  love.  .  You  are  too  high  for 
me,  we  are  not  mates.  ...  I  am  rightly  pun- 
ished. Occupations  more  worthy  of  you  are 
awaiting  you.  I  shall  not  forget  this  day.  .  .  , 
Farewell  ..."  V 

153 


RUDIN 

"  Natiilya  Alexyeevna,  you  are  going?  Can 
we  part  tlius?  " 

lie  stretched  out  his  arms  toward  her.  She 
halted.  His  heseeching  voice,  it  seemed,  had 
made  her  waver. 

"No,"  she  said  at  last: — "I  feel  that  some- 
thing within  me  is  hroken.  .  .  I  came  hither,  I 
talked  with  you,  in  a  sort  of  fever;  I  must  re- 
cover my  senses.  You  yourself  have  said  that 
tliis  must  not  he,  and  it  shall  not  be.  My  God, 
when  I  came  hither,  I  mentally  bade  farewell 
to  my  home,  to  my  past, — and  what  then? 
whom  have  I  encountered  here?  a  cowardly 
man.  .  .  .  And  how  did  you  know  that  I 
would  be  not  capable  of  enduring  the  separation 
from  my  family?  '  Your  mother  does  not  con- 
sent .  .  .  this  is  terrible! '  That  is  all  that  I 
have  heard  from  you.  Is  this  you,  is  this  you, 
Rudin?  No!  farewell.  .  .  .  Akh!  if  he  had 
loved  me,  I  should  have  felt  it  now,  at  this  mo- 
\ment.  .  .  No,  no,  farew^ell!"  .... 

She  turned  swiftlv  round,  and  ran  to  Masha, 
who  had  long  since  begun  to  be  uneasy,  and 
to  make  signs  to  her. 

"It  is  you  who  have  lost  courage,  not  I!" 
Rudin  shouted  after  Natalya. 

She  no  longer  paid  any  attention  to  him,  and 
hastened,  across  the  field,  in  the  direction  of 
home.  She  reached  her  own  bed-chamber  in 
safety;  but  no  sooner  had  she  crossed  the  thresh- 

154 


RUDIN 

old,  than  her  forces  deserted  her,  and  she  fell 
senseless  into  ]Masha's  arms. 

But  Rudin  remained  for  a  long  time  standing 
on  the  dam.  At  last  he  started,  reached  the  path 
with  short  strides,  and  walked  quietly  along  it. 
He  was  greatly  mortified  .  .  .  and  embittered. 
"  Is  that  the  sort  of  girl  she  is?  "  he  said  to  him- 
self. "At  eighteen  yeai's  of  age!  ....  No,  -' 
I  did  not  know  her.  .  .  .  She  is  a  remarkable 
girl.  What  strength  of  will!  ....  She  is 
right;  she  is  worthy  of  a  different  sort  of 
love  from  that  which  I  felt  for  her  .... 
Felt?  .  .  ."  he  asked  himself.  "Is  it  possible 
that  I  no  longer  feel  love?  So  this  is  how  it  was 
all  bound  to  end !  How  pitiful  and  insignificant  / 
I  was  in  her  presence!  " 

The  light  rumble  of  a  racing-gig  caused  Ru- 
din to  raise  his  eyes.  Lezhnyoff  was  driving 
toward  him,  with  Iris  inevitable  trotter.  Rudin 
made  him  a  silent  bow,  and,  as  though  struck  by 
a  sudden  thought,  turned  aside  from  the  road, 
and  walked  swiftly  in  the  direction  of  Darya 
]Mikhaik)vna's  house. 

I^ezhnyoff  allowed  him  to  depart,  gazed  after 
him,  and  after  a  brief  reflection,  also  turned  his 
iiorse  round — and  drove  back  to  VolyntzefF, 
witli  whom  he  had  spent  the  night.  He  found 
him  asleep;  gave  orders  that  lie  was  not  to  be 
wakened,  and  while  waiting  for  tea,  seated  him- 
self on  the  balcony,  and  smoked  his  pipe. 

155 


X 

VoLYNTZEFF  I'ose  about  ten  o'clock,  and  on  hear- 
ing that  LezhnyofF  was  sitting  on  his  balcony, 
was  greatly  amazed,  and  gave  orders  that  he 
should  be  invited  to  his  room. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  inquired  of  him. 
"  Surely,  thou  didst  intend  to  drive  home?" 

"  Yes,  I  did,  but  I  met  INIr.  Riidin.  .  .  He 
was  walking  alone  in  the  fields,  and  his  face  was 
so  disturbed.     I  took  and  came  back." 

"  Thou  hast  returned,  because  thou  hast  met 
Rudin?  " 

"  That  is,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  do  not  know  my- 
self why  I  turned  back;  probably,  because  I  re- 
called thee  to  mind;  I  wanted  to  sit  a  while  with 
thee ;  and  I  shall  get  home  in  good  season " 

VolyntzefF  smiled  haughtily. 

"  Yes,  it  is  impossible  to  think  of  Riidin  now, 
without  also  thinking  of  me  ....  Servant!" 
he  shouted  loudly, — "  give  us  some  tea." 

The  friends  began  to  drink  tea.  Lezhnyoff 
undertook  to  talk  about  farming,  about  a  new 
method  of  roofing  storehouses  with  paper.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  Volyntzeff  sprang  from  his  chair, 
and  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table,  with  so 
much  force,  that  the  cups  and  saucers  rattled. 

156 


RUDIN 

"No!"  he  exclaimed: — "It  is  beyond  my 
power  to  endure  this  any  longer!  I  will  chal- 
lenge that  clever  man,  and  let  him  shoot  me,  or 
I  will  try  to  lodg-e  a  bullet  in  his  learned  fore- 
head! " 

"  What  ails  thee,  what  ails  thee,  for  heaven's 
sake!"  muttered  Lezhnyoff: — "how  canst  thou 
yell  so !  I  have  dropped  my  pipe !  .  .  .  .  What 's 
the  matter  with  thee  ?  " 

"  The  matter  is,  that  I  cannot  listen  to  his 
name  with  indifference:  all  the  blood  in  my  body 
fairly  boils." 

"  Enough  of  that,  brother,  enough  of  that! 
art  not  thou  ashamed  of  thyself! "  returned 
Lezhnyoff,  picking  his  pipe  up  from  the  floor. 
"Drop  it!— Devil  take  him!" 

"  He  has  insulted  me,"  went  on  Volyntzeif , 
striding  about  the  room.  .  .  "  yes!  he  has  in- 
sulted me.  Thou  must  agree  to  that.  At  first, 
I  did  not  have  command  of  myself:  he  stunned 
me;  and  who  could  have  expected  that?  But 
I  '11  show  him  that  he  cannot  jest  with  me.  1  '11 
shoot  him  down  like  a  partridge,  the  cursed 
philosopher!  " 

"  Much  wilt  thou  gain  by  that,  certainly!  I 
am  not  speaking  of  thy  sister  now.  Of  course, 
thou  art  tempest-tossed  with  ])as.si()n  .  .  .  how 
can  one  expect  thee  to  think  of  thy  sister!  And 
so  far  as  the  other  person  is  concerned,  thinkest 

157 


RUDIN 

thou  that,  by  killing  tlie  philosopher,  thou  wilt 
set  thine  own  affairs  right?" 

Volyntzeff  flung  himself  into  an  easy  chair. 

"  Then  I  '11  go  off  somewhere!  For  her  my 
heart  is  overwhelmed  with  anguish;  I  simply 
cannot  find  a  place  anywhere." 

"  Thou  wilt  go  off  .  .  .  that  is  quite  another 
matter!  I  agree  to  that.  And  dost  thou  know 
what  I  would  like  to  propose  to  thee.  Let  us  go 
together — to  the  Caucasus,  or  simply  to  Little 
Russia,  to  eat  dumplings.  That 's  splendid,  my 
dear  fellow!  " 

"Yes;  but  with  whom  shall  we  leave  my 
sister? " 

"  And  why  should  not  Alexandra  Pavlovna 
go  with  us?  By  heavens,  that 's  a  capital  expedi- 
ent. As  for  looking  after  her — I  '11  undertake 
to  do  that!  She  shall  not  want  for  anything;  if 
she  takes  a  fancy,  I  will  arrange  a  serenade 
under  her  window  every  evening;  I  '11  scent  the 
postilions  with  eau  de  cologne,  I  '11  stick  flowers 
all  along  the  roads.  And  thou  and  I,  brother, 
will  simply  begin  life  over  again;  we'll  enjoy 
ourselves  so,  we  '11  come  back  with  such  fat 
paunches,  that  no  love  whatever  will  pierce  us!  " 

"  Thou  art  always  jesting,  Misha! " 

"  I  'm  not  jesting  at  all.  That  was  a  brilliant 
thought  that  occurred  to  thee." 

"No!  nonsense!"  cried  Volyntzeff  again; — 
"  I  want  to  fight,  to  fight  with  him!  "... 

158 


RUDIX 

"'What,  again!  Well,  brother,  thou  certainly 
hast  the  blind  staggers  to-day!"  .  .  . 

A  man-sen-ant  entered  with  a  letter  in  his 
hand. 

"From  whom?"  inquired  LezhnyofF. 

"  From  Riidin,  Dmitry  Xikolaevitch.  The 
Lasunskys'  man  brought  it." 

"From  Riidin?"  repeated  Volyntzeff: — "to 
whom?  " 

"  To  you,  sir." 

"  To  me?  .  .  .  give  it  here." 

VolvntzeiF  seized  the  letter,  hastily  broke  the 
seal,  and  began  to  read.  LezhnyofF  watched 
him  attentively:  a  strange,  almost  joyful  sur- 
prise was  depicted  on  Volyntzeff's  face;  he 
dropped  his  hands. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Lezhnyoff. 

"  Read  it,"  said  Volyntzeff  in  a  low  voice,  and 
handed  him  the  letter. 

Lezhnyoff  began  to  read.  This  is  what  Rudin 
had   written : 

"  Dear  Sir,  Sergyei  Pavlovitch  ! 

"  To-day  I  leave  Darya  Mikhaflovna's  house,  and  I 
leave  it  forever.  This  will,  probably,  surprise  you, 
especially  after  what  took  place  yesterday.  I  cannot 
explain  to  you  precisely  what  causes  me  to  act  thus ;  but 
it  seems  to  me  that,  for  some  reason  or  other,  I  ought 
to  inform  you  of  my  departure.  You  do  not  like  me, 
and  you  even  regard  me  as  a  bad  man.     I  have  no  in- 

159 


RUDIN 

*  tcntioii  of"  justil'vin^'  iiiyscli":  time  will  justify  inc.  In 
my  o{)inii)Ji,  it  is  both  unworthy  and  useless  for  a  man 
to  demonstrate  to  a  prejudiced  person  the  injustice  of 
his  prejudice.  He  who  wishes  to  understand  nie,  will 
pardon  me,  and  he  who  will  not,  or  cannot  understand — 
that  person's  accusations  do  not  affect  me.  I  have  been 
mistaken  in  you.  In  my  eyes,  you  will  remain,  as  here- 
tofore, a  noble  and  honourable  man ;  but  I  had  supposed 
that  you  would  know  how  to  stand  on  a  higher  level  than 
the  sphere  in  which  you  have  grown  up  ....  I 
was  in  error.  What  is  to  be  done.''  It  is  not  the  first,  and 
it  will  not  be  the  last  time.  I  repeat  to  you :  I  am  going 
away.  I  wish  you  happiness.  You  must  agree  with  me, 
that  that  wish  is  thoroughly  disinterested,  and  I  hope, 
that  you  will  now  be  happy.  Perhaps,  in  the  course  of 
time,  j^ou  will  change  your  opinion  about  me.  Whether 
we  shall  ever  meet  again,  I  know  not,  but,  in  any  case, 
( I  remain,  yours  with  sincere  respect — 

"  D.  R." 

"  P.S.  I  will  send  you  the  two  hundred  rubles  which 
I  owe  you,  as  soon  as  I  reach  my  own  home,  in  the 
country,  in  the  Government  of  T  *  *  *  I  will  also  re- 
quest you  not  to  mention  this  letter  in  the  presence  of 
Darya  Mikhailovna. 

"  P.P.S.  One  last,  but  important  request:  as  I  am 
now  going  away,  I  trust  that  you  will  not  mention  my 
visit  to  you,  in  Natalya  Alexyeevna's  presence.   . 


» 


"  Well,  what  hast  thou  to  say?  "  inquired  Vol- 
yntzeff',  as  soon  as  LezhnyofF  had  finished  the 
letter. 

"  ^^^lat    is    there    to    say!"    returned    Lezh- 

160 


RUDIX 

nyofF, — "exclaim,  in  Oriental  fashion:  'Allah! 
Allah ! '  and  thrust  your  finger  into  your  mouth 
with  amazement — that  is  all  that  one  can  do.  He 
is  going  away  ....  Well!  ^Nlay  his  path  be 
as  smooth  as  a  table-cloth !  But  here  's  the  curi- 
ous part  of  it:  he  regarded  it  as  his  duty,  to  write 
you  this  letter,  and  he  presented  himself  to  you, 

from   a   sense   of   duty It   is   duty   at 

every  step,  with  these  gentlemen,— and  duty," 
added  LezhnyofF,  pointing,  with  a  grin,  to  the 
postscript. 

"And  what  phrases  he  gets  off!"  exclaimed 
Volyntzeff. — "  '  He  has  been  mistaken  in  me:  he 
expected  that  I  would  stand  on  a  higher  level 
than  the  sphere.  .  .'  What  nonsense,  oh.  Lord! 
it's  worse  than  poetry!" 

Lezhnyoff  made  no  reply ;  only  his  eye  smiled. 
Volyntzeff  rose. 

"  I  wish  to  go  to  Darya  ^Nlikhailovna's,"  said 
he: — "  I  want  to  find  out  what  all  tliis 
means   .    .    .    ." 

"  Wait,  brotlier:  give  him  a  chance  to  take 
himself  off.  ^Vhat  's  the  use  of  thy  coming  into 
collision  with  him  again?  He  's  going  to  vanish, 
you  see,  and  what  more  dost  thou  want?  Better 
lie  down  and  take  a  nap;  for  thou  hast  been 
tossing  from  side  to  side  all  niglit  long.  But 
now,  tliy  affairs  are  mending  .  .  .  ." 

"  From  what  dost  thou  draw  that  conclu- 
sion? 

101 


RUDIN 

**  Why,  it  seems  so  to  me.  Really,  it  will  be 
better  to  take  a  nap ;  and  I  will  go  to  thy  sisteiv 
and  sit  with  her." 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to  sleep. 
Why  should  I  sleep?  I  had  better  go  and  survey 
the  field,"  said  Volyntzeff,  adjusting  the  skirts 
of  his  coat. 

"  All  right,  go  along,  my  dear  fellow,  go 
along,  survey  the  field."  .  .  . 

And  LezhnyofF  betook  himself  to  Alexandra 
Pavlovna's  part  of  the  house.  He  found  her  in 
the  drawing-room.  She  greeted  him  amiably. 
She  was  always  delighted  at  his  arrival;  but  her 
face  remained  sad.  Rudin's  visit  of  the  day 
before  had  disquieted  her. 

"  Do  you  come  from  my  brother? "  she  asked 
Lezhnyoff : — "  how  is  he  to-day?  " 

"  All  right,  he  is  going  to  survey  the  field." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  said  nothing  for  a  while. 

"  Tell  me,  please,"  she  began,  attentively  in- 
specting the  border  of  her  handkerchief: — "  do 
not  you  know,  why  .  .  .  ." 

"  Riidin  came?"  interpolated  Lezhnyoff: — 
"  Yes,  I  know:  he  came  to  say  farewell." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  raised  her  head. 

"What — to  say  farewell?" 

"Yes.  Haven't  you  heard?  He  is  leaving 
Darya  INIikhailovna's." 

"  He  is  leaving?  " 

"  Forever :  at  all  events,  so  he  says." 

162 


RUDIN 

"  But,  good  gracious,  how  am  I  tc  under- 
stand that,  after  all  that  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  that 's  another  matter!  It  is  impossible 
to  understand  it,  but  so  it  is.  Something  must 
have  happened  there.  He  drew  the  chord  too 
tight — and  it  broke." 

"  Mikhailo  ^likiiailitch! "  began  Alexandra 
Pavlovna: — "  I  understand  nothing;  it  seems 
to  me,  that  you  are  laughing  at  me " 

"  But  I  am  not,  God  is  my  witness.  ...  I 
tell  you,  that  he  is  going  away,  and  he  has  even 
announced  it  by  letter  to  his  acquaintances.  It 's 
not  a  bad  thing,  if  j^ou  like,  from  certain  points 
of  view;  but  his  departure  has  prevented  the 
realisation  of  one  astonishing  enterprise,  which 
your  brother  and  I  had  begun  to  discuss." 

"  What  is  that?   What  enterprise?  " 

"  Why,  this.  I  suggested  to  your  brother  to 
go  away,  for  diversion,  to  travel,  and  to  take  you 
with  him.  I  took  it  upon  myself  to  attend  upon 
you  .  .  ." 

"  Very  fine,  indeed !  "  exclaimed  Alexandra 
Pavlovna: — "  I  can  imagine  how  you  would  at- 
tend upon  me.     You  would  starve  me  to  death." 

"  You  say  that,  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  because 
you  do  not  know  me.  You  think  that  I  am  a 
perfect  })oo})y,  or  some  sort  of  a  wooden  thing; 
but  are  you  aware,  that  I  am  capable  of  melting 
like  sugar,  of  spending  whole  days  on  my 
knees?  " 


RUDIN 

"  I  must  confess,  I  should  like  to  see  that!  " 

Lezhnyoft*  suddenly  rose. — "  Then  marry  me, 
Alexandra  Pavlovna,  and  you  shall  see  it  all." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  blushed  to  her  very  ears. 

"  AVhat  do  you  mean,  JNIikliailo  JNIikhailitch?  " 
she  repeated,  in  confusion. 

"  Why,  what  I  said,"  replied  Lezhnyoff : — 
*'  what  has  already  been  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue 
a  thousand  times.  I  have  blurted  it  out  at  last, 
and  you  may  act  as  you  see  fit.  But,  in  order 
not  to  embarrass  you,  I  will  withdraw  now.  If 
you  will  be  my  wife  ...  I  will  retire.  If  it  is 
not  repulsive  to  you,  only  have  me  called :  I  shall 
understand.  .  ." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  tried  to  detain  Lezh- 
nyoff, but  he  briskly  left  the  room,  and  went 
into  the  garden,  without  his  hat,  where  he  leaned 
his  arms  on  the  wicket-gate,  and  began  to  stare 
off  somewhere  in  the  distance. 

"  jNIikhailo  INIikhailitch !  "  rang  out  the  maid's 
voice  behind  him: — "Please  come  to  my  lady. 
She  has  ordered  me  to  simimon  you." 

Mikhailo  Mikhailitch  turned  round,  took  the 
maid's  head  in  his  hands,  to  her  great  amaze- 
ment, kissed  her  on  the  brow,  and  went  to  Alex- 
andra Pavlovna. 


Ifi4i 


XI 

Ox  reaching  home,  immediately  after  his  en- 
counter with  LezhnyofF,  Rudin  locked  himself 
up  in  his  chamber  and  wrote  two  letters: — one  to 
A^olyntzeff  (which  is  already  known  to  the 
reader),  and  the  other  to  Natalya.  He  sat  for 
a  long  time  over  this  second  letter,  crossed  out 
and  re-wrote  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  after  care- 
fully copying  it  on  a  thin  sheet  of  note-paper, 
folded  it  into  as  small  a  compass  as  possible,  and 
placed  it  in  his  pocket.  With  sorrow  in  his  face, 
he  walked  back  and  forth  several  times  through 
the  room,  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  win- 
dow, and  propped  himself  on  his  elbows;  the 
tears  started  softly  out  upon  his  eyelashes.  .  . 
He  rose,  buttoned  his  coat  to  the  throat,  sum- 
moned a  man-servant,  and  ordered  him  to  in- 
quire of  Darya  ^likhailovna,  whether  she  could 
see  him. 

The  man  speedily  returned  and  announced, 
tliat  Darya  Mikhailovna  had  given  commands 
that  he  should  be  invited  to  come  to  her.  Kudin 
went  to  licr. 

She  received  him  in  lier  ])()ud()ir,  as  on  the  first 
occasion,  two  months  previously.     But  this  time, 


RUDIN 

she  was  not  alone;  Pandalevsky  was  sitting  by 
her  side,  modest,  fresh,  neat  and  full  of  emotion, 
as  usual. 

Darya  INIikhailovna  greeted  Riidin  with  amia- 
bility, and  Riidin  saluted  her  amiably,  but,  at 
the  first  glance  into  the  faces  of  both,  a  per- 
son of  any  experience  whatever,  would  have  un- 
derstood, that  something  unpleasant  had  taken 
place  between  them,  even  if  it  had  not  been  put 
into  words.  Rudin  knew  that  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna  was  angry  with  him.  Darya  Mikhailovna 
suspected  that  he  was  already  informed  of  every- 
thing. 

Pandalevsky's  denunciation  had  disturbed  her 
greatly.  Worldly  pride  had  begun  to  stir  within 
her.  Rudin,  poor,  without  official  rank,  and,  so 
far,  an  unknown  man,  had  dared  to  make  an  ap- 
pointment for  a  meeting  with  her  daughter — the 
daughter  of  Darya  Mikhailovna  Lasunsky!   !   ! 

"  Let  us  admit  that  he  is  clever,  that  he  is  a 
genius!"  she  had  said: — "Yet,  what  does  that 
prove?  After  this,  any  man  may  hope  to  become 
my  son-in-law? " 

"  For  a  long  time,  I  could  not  believe 
my  eyes,"  Pandalevsky  had  interpolated.  "  I  am 
amazed  that  he  should  not  know  his  place ! " 

Darya  Mikhailovna  had  been  extremely  agi- 
tated, and  she  had  made  Natalya  smart  for  it. 

She  invited  Rudin  to  take  a  seat.  He  sat 
down,  but  no  longer  in  the  manner  of  the  for- 

166 


RUDIN 

mer  Rudin,  almost  as  though  he  were  the  masterv^ 
of  the  house,  not  even  hke  a  close  acquaintance, 
but  like  a  visitor,  and  not  even  like  an  intimate 
visitor.  All  this  had  been  accomplished  in  one 
instant.  .  .  .  Just  so  does  water  become  con- 
verted into  firm  ice. 

"  I  have  come  to  you,  Darya  Mikliailovna! " 
began  Riidin : — "to  thank  you  once  more  for  your 
hospitality.  I  have  received  news  to-day  from 
my  little  country  place,  and  must  go  thither  this 
very  day,  without  fail." 

Darya  Mikhailovna  gazed  intently  at  Rudin. 

"  He  has  forestalled  me;  it  must  be,  that  he 
divines  the  truth,"  she  thought.  "  He  is  reliev- 
ing me  of  a  painful  explanation;  so  much  the 
better!    Long  live  the  clever  people!" 

"Really?"  she  said  aloud.  "Akh!  how  dis- 
agreeable! Well,  what  is  to  be  done?  I  shall 
hope  to  see  you  next  winter  in  INfoscow.  We 
shall  soon  leave  here  ourselves." 

"  I  do  not  know,  Darya  iNIikhailovna,  whether 
T  sliall  manage  to  be  in  Moscow;  but  if  my 
means  admit  of  tliat,  I  shall  regard  it  as  my  duty 
to  call  upon  you." 

"  Aha,  my  good  fellow! "  thought  Panda- 
levsky  in  his  turn:  "it  wasn't  so  very  long 
ago  that  thou  wcrt  })hiying  the  master  here, 
and  now  see  liow  thou  art  forced  to  express 
thyself!" 

"  So   you  have   received   unsatisfactory  news 

167 


RUDIN 

from  your  village?  "  he  said,  with  his  habitual 
drawl. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Kudin  curtly. 

"A  bad  harvest,  perhaps?" 

"  Xo  ....  something  else.  .  .  Believe  me, 
Diirya  ^likhailovna,"  added  Hudin: — "  1  shall 
never  forget  the  time  I  have  spent  in  your  house." 

"  And  I,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch,  shall  always  re- 
call with  pleasure  my  acquaintance  with  you. 
.  .  .  When  do  you  set  out?  " 

"  To-day,  after  dinner." 

"  So  soon!  .  .  .  Well,  I  wish  you  a  prosper- 
ous journey.  But,  in  case  your  affairs  do  not 
detain  you,  perhaps  j^ou  will  still  find  us  here." 

"  It  is  hardly  likely  that  I  shall  have  time," 
replied  Rudin  and  rose.  "  Pardon  me,"  he 
added: — "  I  cannot  repay  my  debt  to  you  at  the 
I^ resent  moment;  but  as  soon  as  I  reach  my 
estate  .  .  .  ." 

"Stop,  Dmitry  Nikolaitch!"  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna  interrupted  him: — "aren't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself!  .  .  .  But  what  time  is  it? "  she 
asked. 

Pandalevsky  pulled  a  gold  enamelled  watch 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  looked  at  it,  cau- 
tiously, leaning  his  rosy  cheek  upon  his  firm, 
white  collar. 

"  Thirty-three  minutes  past  two,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  time  to  dress,"  remarked  Darya  Mi- 
khailovna.  "  Farewell  for  the  present,  Dmitry 
Nikolaitch!" 

168 


RUDIN 

Rudin  rose.  The  whole  conversation  between 
him  and  Darya  ^Mikhailovna  had  borne  a  pecu- 
har  imprint.  In  this  fashion  do  actors  rehearse 
their  parts,  in  this  fashion  do  diplomats  at  con- 
ferences exchange  phrases  which  have  been 
agreed  ujDon  in  advance.  .  . 

Rudin  left  the  room.  He  knew  now,  by  expe- 
rience, how  society  people  do  not  even  cast  aside, 
but  simply  drop  a  man,  who  has  become  unne- 
cessary to  them:  like  a  glove,  after  a  ball,  like 
the  wrapper  from  confects,  like  a  ticket  in  a  so- 
ciety lottery,  which  has  not  drawn  a  prize. 

He  hastily  packed  his  things,  and  began  im- 
patiently to  await  the  moment  of  departure. 
Every  one  in  the  household  was  greatly  sur- 
prised, on  learning  his  intention;  people  even 
stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  BasistofF  did 
not  hide  his  grief.  Xatalya  openly  shunned  Ru- 
din. She  tried  to  avoid  meeting  his  gaze;  nev- 
ertheless, he  succeeded  in  thrusting  his  letter 
into  her  hand.  After  dinner,  Darya  Mikhai- 
lovna  once  more  repeated,  that  she  hoj^ed  to  see 
him  again  before  their  departure  for  Moscow, 
but  Rudin  made  her  no  reply.  Pandalevsky  ad- 
dressed him  more  frequently  than  any  one  else. 
More  than  once,  Rudin  felt  strongly  inclined  to 
fling  hinisc'lf  upon  liim,  and  cleave  open  his 
blooming,  rosy  face.  Mile.  ]5oncourt  cast  fre- 
(juent  glances  at  lit'idin,  with  a  crafty  and 
strange  expression  in  her  eyes;  that  sort  of  ex- 
pression can  sometimes  be  seen  in  aged,  very  in- 

109 


RUDIN 

telligent  setter  dogs.  ..."  Ehe!  "  she  appeared 
to  be  saying  to  herself: — "  you  've  caught  it 
now ! 

At  last,  six  o'clock  struck,  and  Rudin's  taran- 
tas  was  brought  round  to  the  door.  He  began 
hastily  to  take  leave  of  them  all.  His  spirit  was 
in  a  very  evil  2:)light.  He  had  not  anticipated 
that  he  would  make  his  exit  from  that  house 
after  this  fashion:  it  was  as  though  he  were  being 
expelled.  ..."  How  has  all  this  come  to  pass! 
and  what  need  was  there  for  me  to  hurry?  How- 
ever, it 's  all  the  same  in  the  end  " — that  is  what 
he  w^as  thinking,  as  he  bowed  on  all  sides,  with  a 
constrained  smile.  For  the  last  time,  he  looked 
at  Natalya,  and  his  heart  was  stirred  within  him: 
her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  in  sorrowful,  fare- 
well reproach. 

He  ran  briskly  down  the  steps,  and  sprang 
into  his  tarantas.  EasistofF  had  offered  to  es- 
cort him  to  the  railway  station,  and  took  his  seat 
beside  him. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  began  Rudin,  as  soon  as 
the  tarantas  had  emerged  from  the  courtyard 
upon  the  broad  road,  bordered  with  fir-trees: — 
"  do  you  remember  what  Don  Quixote  said  to 
his  squire,  when  he  emerged  from  the  Duchess's 
palace?  '  Liberty,'  said  he,  '  my  friend  Sancho, 
is  one  of  man's  most  precious  possessions,  and 
happy  is  he  on  whom  heaven  hath  bestowed  a 
morsel  of  bread,  who  is  not  compelled  to  be  in- 

170 


RUDIN 

debted  for  it  to  any  one ! '    What  Don  Quixote 

felt   then,    I    feel   now God   grant,   my 

good  BasistofF,  that  you  may  some  day  experi- 
ence this  feeling!  " 

BasistofF  squeezed  Rudin's  hand,  and  the 
heart  of  the  honest  young  fellow  beat  violently 
in  his  deeply  aiFected  breast.  Riidin  discoursed 
all  the  way  to  the  railway  station,  on  the  dignity 
of  man,  on  the  significance  of  genuine  freedom, — 
discoursed  fervently,  nobly  and  justly — and 
when  the  moment  of  parting  came,  Basistoff 
could  endure  it  no  longer,  flung  himself  on  his 
neck,  and  burst  out  sobbing.  Tears  streamed 
down  Rudin's  face  also;  but  he  did  not  weep  be- 
cause he  was  parting  with  BasistofF,  and  his 
tears  were  the  tears  of  self-love. 

Xatalya  went  to  her  own  room  and  read  Ru- 
din's letter. 

"  My  dear  Natalya  Alexyeevna — "  he  had  written  to 
her — "  I  have  decided  to  go  away.  There  is  no  other 
issue  for  me.  I  have  decided  to  go  away,  before  I  am 
told,  in  plain  terms,  to  begone.  With  my  departure,  all 
misunderstandings  will  come  to  an  end  ;  and  it  is  hardly 
likely  that  any  one  will  pity  me.  What  else  could  I  ex- 
pect? .  .  .  All  this  is  so;  but  why  should  I  write  to 
you  ? 

"  I  uiM  parting  from  you,  j)r()l)ably  forever,  and  it 
would  be  too  bitter  to  leave  you  a  iiuinory  of  myself  still 
worse  than  that  which  I  iiurit.  Tiiat  is  why  I  am 
writing  to  yuu.     I  do  not   wish  tit  her  to  defend  myself, 

in 


RUDIN 

or  to  blame  an}-  one  except   inj'self:  I  wisli,  so  far  as 

possible,  to  explain  myself The  events  of  the 

last  few  days  have  been  so  unexpected,  so  sudden.   .   .   . 

"  Our  meeting  of  to-day  will  serve  mc  as  a  memorable 
lesson.  Yes,  you  are  right :  I  did  not  know  you,  but  I 
thought  I  knew  you  !  In  the  course  of  my  life,  I  have 
had  to  deal  with  all  sorts  of  people,  I  have  been  closely 
acquainted  with  many  women  and  young  girls ;  but  when 
I  met  you,  I  met,  for  the  fii'st  time,  a  perfectly  honour- 
able and  upright  soul.  I  was  not  accustomed  to  this, 
and  I  did  not  know  how  to  appreciate  you.  I  felt  drawn 
towards  you,  from  the  very  first  day  of  our  acquaintance 
— you  may  have  noticed  it.  I  passed  hours  and  hours 
in  your  societ}"^,  and  yet  I  did  not  learn  to  know  you ;  I 
hardly  even  tried  to  know  you  ....  and  I  could  im- 
agine that  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  you ! !  For  that  sin 
I  am  now  punished. 
^  "  Once  before,  I  loved  a  woman,  and  she  loved  me.  .  .  . 
My  feeling  for  her  was  complicated,  as  was  hers  for 
me ;  but,  as  she  herself  was  not  simple,  it  was  fitting. 
The  truth  did  not  make  itself  felt  by  me  then:  I  did 
not   recognise   it,   and   now,   when   it   stood   before   me, 

I  recognised  it,  at  last,  but  too  late.   .   .   .  The 

past  cannot  be  brought  back.  ,  .  .  Our  lives  might  have 
been  merged  in  one — and  they  will  never  be  merged. 
How  can  I  prove  to  you,  that  I  might  have  loved  you 
with  real  love — with  the  love  of  the  heart,  not  of  the 
imagination — when  I  myself  do  not  know  whether  I  am 
\    capable  or  not  of  such  a  love! 

"  Nature  has  endowed  me  with  much — that  I  know, 
and  I  will  not  assume  an  air  of  modesty  to  you,  out  of 
false  shame,   especially   now,   in   moments  so  bitter,   so 

172 


RUDIX 

shameful  for  me.  .  .  .  Yes,  nature  has  given  me  much;v^ 
but  I  shall  die,  without  having  done  an^'thing  worthy 
of  my  powers,  without  having  left  behind  me  a  single 
beneficent  trace.  All  my  wealth  will  perish  in  vain;  I 
shall  behold  no  fruits  from  my  seeds.  I  lack  ...  I  my- 
self cannot  say  precisely  what  is  lacking  in  me.  .  .  What 
I  lack  is,  in  all  probability,  that  without  which  it  is  as 
impossible  to  move  the  hearts  of  men,  as  it  is  to  subdue 
the  hearts  of  women ;  and  sovereignty  over  minds  alone 
is  both  uncertain  and  useless.  Strange,  almost  comic  is 
m}'  fate :  I  surrender  the  whole  of  myself,  eagerly,  com- 
pletely— and  cannot  surrender  myself.  I  shall  end  by 
sacrificing  myself  for  some  nonsense  or  other,  in  which 
I  shall  not  even  believe.  .  .  ]\Iy  God !  the  idea  of  being 
still  engaged,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  in  preparing  to  ^ 
do  something!  ...  v 

"  I  shall  never  again  speak  out  my  sentiments  to  any 
one — this  is  my  dying  confession. 

"  But  enough  about  me.  I  wish  to  speak  about  you, 
to  give  you  a  few  counsels :  I  am  fit  for  nothing  else 
....  you  are  still  young,  but  no  matter  how  long  you 
may  live,  always  follow  the  intuitions  of  your  heart,  do 
not  surrender  yourself  to  your  own  mind,  nor  to  the  mind 
of  any  one  else.  Believe  me,  tlie  more  simple,  the  more 
restricted  the  circle  in  which  life  flows  on,  the  better; 
the  important  point  docs  not  lie  in  seeking  out  new  sides 
of  it,  but  in  having  all  its  transitions  accomplished  in 
their  proper  season.  '  Blessed  is  he,  who  has  been  young 
from  his  youth  '  .  .  But  I  observe,  tliat  these  counsels 
apply  much  more  to  me,  than  they  do  to  you. 

"  I  will  confess  to  you,  Natalya  Alexycevna,  that  I 
am  very  heavy  at  heart.     I  liave  never  deceived  myself, 

173 


RUDIN 

as  to  the  clinracter  of  the  feehng  which  I  inspired  in 
Durva  Mikhailovna;  but  I  hoped,  that  I  had  found,  at 
least  a  temporary  harbour.  .  .  .  Now,  once  more,  I  must 
roam  about  the  world.  ^Vhat  will  compensate  to  me  for 
your  conversation,  your  presence,  your  attentive,  and 
intelligent  gaze.''  ...  I  myself  am  to  blame;  but  you 
nuist  agree  with  me,  that  fate  has  seemed  deliberately  to 
mock  at  us.  A  week  ago,  I  hardly  suspected  that  I 
loved  you.  .  Day  before  yesterday  evening,  in  the  gar- 
den, I  heard,  for  the  first  time,  from  you  .  .  .  but  why 
recall  to  you  that  which  you  then  said — and  now,  to-day, 
I  am  going  away,  going  away  in  disgrace,  after  a  cruel 
explanation  with  3'ou,  and  bearing  with  me  not  the 
slightest  hope.  .  .  And  even  yet,  you  do  not  know  to 
what  an  extent  I  am  to  blame  towards  you.  .  .  There  is 
in  me  a  certain  stupid  frankness,  a  certain  loquacity.  .  .  . 
But  why  speak  of  that?     I  am  going  away  forever." 

(Here  Rudin  had  an  idea  of  recounting  to 
Natalya  his  visit  to  Volyntzeff ,  but  changed  his 
mind,  and  erased  all  that  passage,  but  added  the 
second  postscript  to  his  letter  to  Volyntzeff). 

"  I  shall  remain  alone  on  earth,  in  order  to  devote  my- 
self, as  you  said  to  me  this  morning,  with  a  cruel  sneer, 
to  occupations  more  suited  to  me.  Alas !  if  I  could 
really  devote  myself  to  those  occupations,  conquer  my 

indolence  at  last But  no!     I  shall  remain  the 

same  incomplete  creature  as  I  have  been  hitherto.  .  .  . 
At  the  very  first  obstacle — I  am  completely  scattered  to 
the  winds ;  the  affair  with  you  has  demonstrated  that  to 
me.     If  I  had,  at  least,  but  offered  my  love  as  a  sacrifice 

174 


RUDIN 

to  my  future  occupation,  to  my  vocation ;  but  I  was 
simply  frightened  at  the  responsibility,  which  had  fallen 
upon  me,  and  therefore,  in  very  truth,  I  am  unworthy 
of  you.  I  am  not  worthy  of  your  wresting  yourself  out 
of  your  sphere  for  me.  .  .  And,  after  all,  perhaps  it  is 
ill  for  the  best.  Perhaps  I  shall  emerge  from  this  trial 
purer  and  stronger. 

"  I  wish  you  the  fulness  of  happiness.  Farewell ! 
Think  of  me,  now  and  then.  I  hope  that  you  will  yet 
hear  of  me. 

"  RtjDIN." 

Natalya  dropped  Rudin's  letter  on  her  lap, 
and  sat  for  a  long  time  motionless,  with  her  eyes 
riveted  on  the  floor.  This  letter,  more  clearly 
than  all  possible  arguments,  proved  to  her  how 
thoroughly  in  the  right  she  had  been  when,  on 
parting  from  Rudin  that  morning,  she  had  in- 
voluntarily exclaimed,  that  he  did  not  love  her! 
But  she  felt  none  the  more  at  ease  for  that.  She 
sat  motionless;  it  seemed  to  her,  as  though  some 
sort  of  dark  waves  were  closing  in,  without  a 
j)lash,  above  her  head,  and  she  was  sinking  to  the 
bottom,  growing  stiff  and  dumb  as  she  went. 
Every  one  finds  the  first  disillusionment  painful ; 
but  for  the  sincere  soul,  which  does  not  wish  to  de- 
ceive itself,  which  is  alien  to  frivolity  and  exag- 
geration, it  is  almost  beyond  endurance.  Na- 
talya recalled  her  cbildbood,  when,  during  her 
evening  strolls,  she  was  always  striving  to  go 
in   the  direction  of  the  bi-ight  rim  of  the  sky, 

175 


RUDIN 

thither  wliere  the  glow  of  sunset  burned,  and  not 
toward  tlie  dark.  Life  now  stood  dark  before 
her,  and  she  had  turned  her  back  on  the 
lioht.   .   .   . 

Tears  sprang  to  Natalya's  eyes.  Tears  are 
not  always  beneficent.  They  are  consoling  and 
healing,  when,  after  having,  for  a  long  time, 
seethed  in  the  breast,  they  flow  at  last — first  vio- 
lently, then  more  and  more  gently,  more  sweetly ; 
they  dissolve  the  dumb  torture  of  grief.  .  .  .  But 
if  they  be  cold  tears  which  flow  sparingly:  the 
woe  which  lies  like  a  heavy,  immovable  burden 
on  the  heart,  crushes  them  out,  drop  by  drop; 
they  are  devoid  of  consolation,  and  they  bring 
no  relief.  Want  weeps  with  such  tears  as  these, 
and  he  has  not  yet  been  unhappy  who  has  not 
shed  them.  Natalya  made  acquaintance  with 
them  on  that  day. 

Two  hours  elapsed,  TsTatalya  mustered  her 
courage,  rose,  wiped  her  eyes,  lighted  a  candle, 
burned  Riidin's  letter  to  the  end  in  its  flame,  and 
flung  the  ashes  out  of  the  window. 

Then  she  opened  Pushkin  at  haphazard,  and 
read  the  first  lines  which  met  her  eye  (she  often 
told  her  fortune  in  this  manner  with  him). 
This  is  what  turned  up: 

He  who  hath  felt,  that  man  doth  trouble 


The  wraith  of  days  forever  gone.   . 
<^   For  there  is  no  witchery  more,  .   .  . 
Him  doth  memory's  serpent, 
Him  doth  repentance  gnaw.  .  .  .  • 

176 


)> 


I 


RUDIN 

She  stood,  and  gazed  at  herself  in  the  mirror, 
with  a  cold  smile,  and  after  making  a  small 
movement  with  her  head,  downwards  from 
above,  she  went  to  the  drawing-room. 

Darya  jNIikliailovna,  as  soon  as  she  saw  her, 
bade  her  come  into  her  boudoir,  seated  her  bv  her 
side,  tapped  her  affectionately  on  the  cheek,  and 
in  the  meantime,  peered  attentively,  almost  cu- 
riously, into  her  eves.  Darva  3Iikhailovna  felt 
a  secret  perjDlexity:  for  the  first  time  it  had  en- 
tered her  head,  that,  in  reality,  she  did  not  know 
her  own  daughter.  On  hearing  from  Panda- 
levsky  about  her  meeting  with  Rudin,  she  had 
felt  not  so  much  incensed  as  amazed,  that  sen- 
sible Xatalya  could  make  up  her  mind  to  such 
a  step.  But  when  she  had  summoned  her  to  her, 
and  had  undertaken  to  scold  her — not  in  the 
least  as  might  have  been  expected  from  a  Euro- 
pean woman,  but  in  a  decidedly  shrill  and  inele- 
gant manner — Natalya's  firm  replies,  the  decision 
of  her  glances  and  movements,  had  disconcerted* 
even  alarmed,  Darya  JNIikliailovna. 

Rudin's  abrupt  and  not  entirely  comprehensi- 
ble departure,  had  removed  a  great  weiglit  from 
Iier  heart;  but  she  had  expected  tears,  hysterical 
attacks.  .  .  .  Xatalya's  outward  composure 
again  IjufHed  lier. 

"  Well,  my  child,"  began  Darya  Mikhailovna; 
— "  how  art  thou  to-day?  " 

Natiilya  looked  at  her  mother. 

"  He  has  gone,  you  know,  the  object  of  your 

177 


IIUUIN 

ali'ections.  Dost  thou  not  know,  why  he  made 
ready  so  hastily  ?  " 

"  ^Nlama!  "  began  Natalya,  in  a  (|uiet  voice: — 
"  I  pledge  thee  my  word,  that  if  thou  thyself 
wilt  not  mention  his  name,  thou  wilt  never  hear 
anything  from  me." 

"  So  thou  acknowledgest,  that  thou  wert  to 
blame  toward  me?  " 

Natalya  drooped  her  head,  and  repeated: 

"  Thou  wilt  never  hear  anything  from  me." 

"Well,  see  that  I  do  not!"  returned  Darya 
Mikliailovna,  with  a  smile.  "  I  believe  thee. 
But  day  before  yesterday,  dost  thou  remember 
how.  .  .  .  Well,  I  will  not  do  it  again.  It  is 
ended,  settled  and  buried.  Is  n't  it?  Here  now, 
I  recognise  thee  again ;  but  I  was  pretty  nearly  at 
an  utter  loss.    Come,  kiss  me,  my  wise  one!  "... 

Natalya  raised  Darya  INIikhailovna's  hand  to 
her  lips,  and  Darya  IMikhailovna  kissed  her  on 
her  bowed  head. 

"  Always  heed  my  counsels,  do  not  forget  that 
thou  art  a  Lasunsky  and  my  daughter,"  she 
added: — "and  thou  wilt  be  happy.     And  now 

go- 

Natalya  withdrew  in  silence.     Darya  Mikhai- 

lovna  gazed  after  her,  and  thought:  "  She  takes 
after  me — she  also  will  fall  in  love:  mais  aura 
moins  d'ahandon''  And  Darya  Mikhailovna 
immersed  herself  in  memories  of  the  past  .... 
of  the  distant  past  .... 

178 


RUDIX 

Then  she  ordered  ]Mlle.  Boncourt  to  be  sum- 
moned, and  sat  for  a  long  time  with  her,  the  two 
locked  in  together.  On  dismissing  her,  she 
called  in  Pandalevsky.  She  insisted  upon  know- 
ing the  real  cause  of  Rudin's  departure  .  .  . 
but  Pandalevsky  completely  reassured  her. 
That  was  part  of  his  business. 

On  the  following  day  Volvntzeff  came  with  his 
sister  to  dinner.  Darva  iSIikhailovna  was  always 
very  amiable  to  him,  and  on  this  occasion,  she 
treated  him  in  a  particularly  caressing  manner. 
It  was  intolerably  painful  to  Xatalya:  but  Vol- 
vntzeff was  so  respectful,  talked  to  her  so  tim- 
idly, that  she  could  not  but  thank  him  in  her  soul. 

The  day  passed  quietly,  in  a  rather  tiresome 
way,  but  all,  on  separating,  felt  that  they  had 
got  back  into  their  ordinary  rut ;  and  this  means 
a  great  deal,  a  very  great  deal. 

Yes,  all  had  got  back  into  their  former  rut 
....  all,  except  Xatalya.  When,  at  last,  she 
was  alone,  she  dragged  herself,  with  difficulty, 
to  her  bed,  and  weary,  broken,  fell  face  down 
upon  the  i)ill()ws.  living  seemed  to  her  so  bit- 
ter, and  repulsive,  and  insipid,  she  felt  so 
ashamed  of  herself,  of  her  love,  of  her  sorrow, 
that,  at  that  moment,  she  would,  probably,  have 
consented  to  die.  .  .  .  Many  ])ainful  days  still 
lay  before  her,  many  sleepless  nights,  of  tortur- 
ing agitation,  but  she  was  young — life  was  only 

179 


RUDIN 

just  beginning  for  her,  and  sooner  or  later,  life 
asserts  itself.  \\'liatever  blow  has  been  dealt  to 
a  man,  on  the  very  same  day,  or  on  tlie  next  day 
at  latest — pardon  the  vulgarity  of  the  compari- 
son— he  will  begin  to  eat,  and  there  you  have 

the  first  consolation 

Natalya  suffered  tortures,  she  Avas  suffering 
for  the  first  time.  .  .  But  first  sufferings,  like 
first  love,  are  not  repeated, — and  God  be 
thanked    for   that! 


XII 

About  two  j'ears  have  elapsed.  The  first  daj's 
of  ^lay  had  arrived.  On  the  balcony  of  her  house 
sat  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  only  no  longer  Lipin 
but  Lezhnvoff ;  it  was  more  than  a  vear  since 
she  had  married  Mikliailo  jNIikhailitch.  As  in 
the  past,  she  was  charming,  but  had  grown  stout 
of  late.  In  front  of  the  balcony,  from  which 
steps  led  into  the  garden,  a  nurse  was  walking, 
holding  in  her  arms  a  baby,  in  a  little  white  cloak, 
and  with  a  white  pompon  on  its  hat. 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  kept  glancing  at  it. 
The  baby  was  not  crying,  but  was  sucking  its 
thumb  with  dignity,  and  staring  about  it.  The 
worthy  son  of  Mikliailo  JNIikhailitch  was  already 
asserting  itself  in  him. 

Beside  Alexandra  Pavlovna,  on  the  balcon}^ 
sat  our  old  accjuaintance,  PigasofF.  lie  has 
grown  noticea])ly  grey,  since  we  parted  from 
him,  has  become  bent  and  thin,  and  hisses  when 
he  talks;  the  hissing  imparts  still  more  venom  to 
his  speeches.  .  .  His  spite  has  not  diminished 
with  the  years,  but  his  witticisms  have  lost  tlieir 
point,  and  he  repeats  himself  more  frequently 
than  of  yore.     Mikhailo  Mikhailitch  was  not  at 

181 


RUDIN 

home;  they  were  expecting  him  for  tea.  The 
sun  liad  already  set.  In  the  place  where  it  had 
gone  down,  a  strip  of  pale-gold,  of  lemon  colour, 
stretched  along  the  horizon;  in  the  opposite 
quarter,  there  were  two  streaks:  one,  the  lower, 
blue,  the  other,  the  higher  up,  brilliant  purple. 
Light  clouds  were  melting  into  the  zenith. 
Everything  foreboded  steady  weather. 

All  at  once,  PigasofF  broke  out  laughing. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Afrikan  Sem- 
yonitch?"  inquired  Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  Oh,  because  .  .  .  Yesterday,  I  heard  a 
peasant  say  to  his  wife — she,  the  fool,  was  chat- 
tering : — '  Don't  squeak ! '  .  .  .  That  pleased  me 
greatly.  Don't  squeak!  Yes,  and  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  what  can  a  woman  argue  about?  You 
know,  that  I  never  talk  about  present  company. 
Our  elders  were  wiser  than  we.  In  their  fairy- 
tales, the  beauty  sits  at  the  window,  on  her  brow 
is  a  star,  but  she  never  utters  a  sound.  That 's 
the  way  it  ought  to  be.  But  otherwise,  judge 
for  yourself:  day  before  yesterday,  the  wife  of 
our  marshal  of  the  nobility,  as  good  as  fired  a 
pistol  into  my  brains:  she  said  to  me,  that  she 
did  not  like  my  tendency!  Tendency!  Come 
now,  would  n't  it  be  better  for  her,  and  for  every- 
body, if  somehow,  by  some  beneficent  arrange- 
ment of  nature,  she  could  have  suddenly  been 
deprived  of  the  use  of  her  tongue?  " 

"  You   are   just   the   same   as   ever,   Afrikan 

182 


RUDIN 

Semyonitch:  you  are  always  attacking  us  poor 
women.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  that  really  is  a 
misfortune,  in  its  way.     I  am  sorry  for  you." 

"A  misfortune?  What  are  you  pleased  to 
mean  by  that  i  In  the  first  place,  in  my  opinion, 
there  are  only  three  misfortunes  in  the  world: 
to  live  in  cold  lodgings  in  the  winter,  to  wear 
tight  boots  in  summer,  and  to  spend  the  night  in 
a  room  where  a  baby  is  screaming,  which  cannot 
be  put  to  sleep  with  Persian  powder;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  I  have  become  the  most  peaceable 
of  men  now.  You  might  even  use  me  as  a 
model  in  a  copy-book!  I  behave  in  such  a  moral 
way. 

"  You  do  behave  well,  there  's  no  denying  it! 
Xot  longer  ago  than  yesterday  evening,  Elena 
Antonovna  complained  of  you  to  me." 

"You  don't  say  so,  ma'am!  And  what  did 
she  tell  you,  permit  me  to  inquire?  " 

"  She  told  me,  that  during  the  whole  course  of 
the  morning,  the  only  reply  you  had  made  to  her 
fiuestions,  was,  'What,  ma'am?  what,  ma'am?' 
and  that  in  such  a  squeaking  voice,  to  boot." 

PigasofF  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  And  that  was  a  fine  idea,  you  must  agree, 
Alexandra  Pavlovna  ....  hey?" 

"  Remarka])ly!  How  can  you  be  so  impolite  to 
a  woman,  Afrikan  Semyonitch?" 

"What?  Is  Elena  Antonovna  a  woman,  in 
your  opinion?  " 

183 


RUDIN 

"  What  is  slie,  then,  in  yours? " 

"  A  ch'vini,  good  gracious,  a  common  drum, 
the  sort  that  is  tluiniped  with  sticks."  .  . 

"  Akh,  yes!"  interrupted  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna,  wishing  to  change  the  conversation; — "  I 
am  told  that  you  are  to  be  congratulated?" 

"On  what?" 

"  On  the  ending  of  your  law-suit.  The  Gh- 
novsky  meadows  remain  your  property." 

"  Yes,  they  do,"  returned  Pigasoff  gloomily. 

"  You  have  been  trying  to  accomplish  this  for 
years,  and  now  you  seem  to  be  dissatisfied." 

"  I  will  inform  you,  Alexandra  Pavlovna," 
said  Pigasoff  deliberately: — "that  nothing  can 
be  w^orse  and  more  offensive  than  happiness 
which  comes  too  late.  It  cannot  afford  you  any 
satisfaction,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  it  deprives 
you  of  a  precious  right, — the  right  to  scold  and 
to  curse  fate.  Yes,  madam,  belated  happiness  is 
a  bitter  and  offensive  thing." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  merely  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"  Nurse,"  she  began: — "  I  think  it  is  time  to 
put  INIisha  to  bed.     Bring  him  hither." 

And  Alexandra  Pavlovna  busied  herself  with 
her  son,  while  Pigasoff  took  himself  off,  growl- 
ing, to  another  corner  of  the  balcony. 

All  at  once,  Mikhailo  Mikhailitch  made  his 
appearance,  in  his  racing-gig,  a  short  distance 
off,  on  the  road  which  skirted  the  garden.     In 

184 


RUDTX 

front  of  his  horse  ran  two  huge  yard-dogs:  one 
yellow,  the  other  grey;  he  had  lately  provided 
himself  with  them.  They  were  incessantly  fight- 
ing, and  dwelt  in  inseparable  friendship.  An 
aged  mastiff  emerged  from  the  gate  to  meet 
them,  opened  his  mouth,  as  though  preparing  to 
])ark,  and  wound  up  by  yawning  and  returning, 
wagging  his  tail  in  a  friendly  way. 

"  Look,  Sasha, — "  shouted  LezhnyofF  from 
afar  to  his  wife; — "  see  whom  I  am  bringing  to 
thee."  .  .  . 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  did  not,  on  the  instant, 
recognise  the  man,  who  was  sitting  with  his  back 
to  her  husband. 

"  Ah!  ]Mr.  Basistoff !  "  she  cried,  at  last. 

"  'T  is  he,  't  is  he,"  replied  LezhnyofF:—"  and 
what  splendid  news  he  has  brought.  Just  wait, 
thou  wilt  hear  directly." 

And  he  drove  into  the  yard. 

A  few  moments  later,  he  made  his  appearance 
with  Basistoff  on  the  balcony. 

"Hurrah!"  he  exclaimed,  and  embraced  his 
wife. — "  Seryozha  is  going  to  be  married!" 

"To  whom?"  asked  Alexandra  Pavlovna, 
with  agitation. 

"  To  Xatalya,  of  course.  .  .  .  Our  friend, 
here,  has  brouglit  the  news  from  ^Moscow,  and 
there  is  a  letter  for  thee.  .  .  Dost  thou  hear,  IVIi- 
shnk!  "  he  added,  catching  his  son  in  his  arms; — 
"thine  uncle  is  to  be  married!  .  .  .  Ekh,  what 

185 


RUDIN 

villainous  apathy!  he  does  nothing  but  blink  his 
eyes ! 

"  He  is  sleepy,"  remarked  the  nurse. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  Basistoff,  approaching 
Alexandra  Pavlovna: — "I  have  arrived  from 
^Moscow  to-day,  with  a  commission  from  Darya 
^likhailovna — to  audit  tlie  account?  of  the  es- 
tate.    And  here  is  the  letter." 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  hastily  broke  the  seal  of 
her  brother's  letter.  It  consisted  of  a  few  lines. 
In  his  first  transport  of  joy,  he  informed  his  sis- 
ter, that  he  had  offered  himself  to  Natalya,  had 
received  her  consent  and  Darya  Mikhailovna's, 
and  promised  to  write  further  with  the  first  post, 
and,  though  absent,  he  embraced  and  kissed 
them  all.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  written 
under  a  sort  of  spell. 

Tea  was  served,  and  Basistoff  was  made  to  sit 
down.  He  was  pelted  with  a  hail  of  questions. 
Every  one,  even  PigasofF,  was  delighted  at  the 
news  he  had  brought. 

"  Tell  me,  please,"  said  LezhnyofF,  among 
other  things: — "  Rumours  have  reached  us  con- 
cerning a  certain  ^Ir.  Kortchagin, — of  course,  it 
was  nonsense?  " 

(Kortchagin  was  a  handsome  young  man — a 
society  lion,  extremely  inflated  with  pride  and 
importance:  he  bore  himself  in  a  remarkably  ma- 
jestic manner,  as  though  he  were  not  a  live  man, 

186 


RUDIX 

but  his  own  statue,  erected  by  public  subscrip- 
tion. ) 

"  Well,  no,  it 's  not  entirely  nonsense,"  re- 
turned Basistoff,  with  a  smile.  "  Darya  ^li- 
khailovna  favoured  him  ffreatlv;  but  Xatalva 
Alexyeevna  would  not  hear  to  him." 

"  Yes,  and  I  know  him,"  interpolated  Piga- 
sofF:  "  he  *s  a  double-flowered  blockliead,  a  thun- 
dering blockhead  ....  good  gracious!  Why, 
if  all  people  were  like  him,  it  would  be  necessary 
to  demand  a  lot  of  money,  before  one  would  con- 
sent to  live  .  .  .  upon  my  word!  " 

"Perhaps  so,"  replied  Basistoff: — "but  he 
plays  a  far  from  insignificant  part  in  society." 

"  Well,  that  makes  no  difference!  "  exclaimed 
Alexandra  Pavlovna: — "  I  want  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  him!  Akh,  how  glad  I  am  for  my 
brother!  .  .  .  And  is  Xatalya  cheerful,  happy?" 

"  Yes,  madam, — she  is  composed,  as  usual — 
you  know  her,  of  course — but,  apparently,  she 
is  contented." 

The  evening  passed  in  pleasant  and  vivacious 
conversation.     They  sat  down  to  supper. 

"  Yes,  by  the  way,"  inquired  LezlinyofF  of 
Basistoff,  as  he  poured  him  out  some  claret: — 
"do  you  know  wliere  Ri'idin  is?" 

"  I  do  not  know  for  certain,  at  present.  He\ 
came  to  Moscow  last  winter,  for  a  short  time,  \ 
then  he  went  off  to  Simbirsk  with  a  family;  he  I 

187 


RtJDIN 

N»  and  I  corresponded  for  a  time:  in  his  last  letter, 
he  informed  me,  that  he  was  leaving  Simhirsk — 
he  did  not  say  whither  he  was  going — and  since 
i  tlien,  1  liave  heard  nothing  ahont  him." 

''He  won't  get  lost!"  interpolated  PigasofF: 
— "  he 's  sitting  somewhere,  and  preaching. 
That  gentleman  will  always  find  two  or  three 
worshippers,  who  will  listen  to  him,  with  gaping 
mouths,  and  lend  him  money.  You  '11  see,  he  '11 
end  hy  dying  somewhere  in  Tzarevokokoshaisk, 
or  in  Tchukhlom,  in  the  arms  of  a  very  aged 
spinster,  in  a  wig,  who  will  think  of  him  as  the 
greatest  genius  in  the  world.  .  ." 

"  You  express  yourself  very  harshly  with  re- 
gard to  him,"  remarked  Basistoff  in  an  under- 
tone, and  with  displeasure. 

"  I  'm  not  in  the  least  liarsh !  " — retorted  Piga- 
soff : — "  but  perfectly  just!  In  my  opinion,  he  's 
nothing  more  than  a  lickspittle.  I  had  forgotten 
to  tell  you,"  he  continued,  addressing  Lezh- 
nyofF: — "you  see,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
that  Terlakhoff,  with  whom  Riidin  went  abroad. 
I  should  think  I  did!  I  should  think  I  did!  You 
cannot  imagine  what  he  told  me  about  him — it 
was  enough  to  make  you  die  with  laughing,  sim- 
ply !  It  is  a  notable  fact,  that  all  Rudin's  friends 
and  followers  become,  in  time,  his  enemies." 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  except  me  from  the  num- 
ber of  those  friends,"  interrupted  Basistoif, 
hotly. 

188 


RUDIX 

"Well,  you — that's  another  matter!  We  are 
not  talking  about  you." 

"  But  what  was  it  that  TerlakhofF  told  you? " 
inquired  Alexandra  Pavlovna. 

"  ^^'hy,  he  told  me  a  great  deal:  I  cannot  re- 
call all  of  it.  But  the  very  best  anecdote  of  all 
that  happened  to  Rudin,  is  this.  Uninterrupt- 
edly developing  himself  (that  sort  of  gentleman 
always  develops:  others,  for  example,  simply 
sleep,  or  eat — but  they  find  themselves  in  the 
moment  of  development  of  sleeping  or  of  eat- 
ing; isn't  that  so,  Mr.  BasistofF?  "— BasistofF 
made  no  reply).  .  .  "And  so,  constantly  devel- 
oping, Rudin  arrived,  by  the  road  of  philoso- 
phy, at  the  argument,  that  he  ought  to  fall  in 
love. 

"  He  began  to  look  up  an  object,  who  should  be 
worthy  of  such  a  remarkable  syllogism.  For- 
tune smiled  u])on  him.  He  made  the  acquain- 
tance of  a  French  woman,  a  very  pretty  little 
milliner.  The  affair  took  place  in  a  German 
town,  on  the  Rliine,  ])lease  to  note.  He  began 
to  call  on  her,  to  carry  her  various  books,  to  talk 
to  her  about  Xature  and  Hegel.  Can  j^ou 
imagine  the  situation  of  the  milliner?  She  took 
liim  for  an  astronomer.  But,  you  know,  he  's  a 
fairly  good-looking  young  fellow;  well,  he  was 
a  foreigner,  a  Russian,  and  he  caught  her  fancy. 
So,  at  last,  he  appointed  a  tryst,  and  a  very  po- 
etical  tr^'st:   in   a   gondola,   on  the  river.      The 

189 


RUDIN 

French  woman  consented;  she  dressed  herself  in 
her  best,  and  set  oif  with  him  in  the  gondola. 
Thus  they  rowed  about  for  a  couple  of  hours. 
And  how  do  you  think  he  spent  all  that  time? 
He  kept  stroking  the  French  woman  on  the 
head,  gazing  meditatively  at  the  sky,  and  repeat- 
ing, several  times,  that  he  felt  a  paternal  affec- 
tion for  her.  Tlie  French  woman  returned  home 
in  a  rage,  and  told  the  whole  thing  herself,  after- 
wards, to  Terlaklioff .  That 's  the  sort  of  gen- 
tleman he  is ! " 

And  Pigasoff  laughed. 

"  You  are  an  old  cynic!  "  remarked  Alexan- 
dra Pavlovna,  with  vexation : — "  and  I  am  more 
and  more  convinced  that  even  those  who  revile 
Riidin,  can  say  nothing  bad  of  him." 

"  Nothing  bad?  Upon  my  word!  and  how 
about  his  forever  living  at  the  expense  of  other 
people,  his  borrowing?  .  .  .  JNIikhailo  Mikhai- 
litch,  he  certainly  must  have  borrowed  money 
from  you?  " 

"See  here,  Afrikan  Semyonitch!"  began 
Lezhnyoff ,  and  his  face  assumed  a  serious  ex- 
pression:— "  listen  to  me:  you  know,  and  my  wife 
knows,  that  I  have  not  felt  particularly  well 
disposed  toward  Rudin  of  late  years,  and  that  I 
have  even  frequently  condemned  him.  Never- 
theless "  (Lezhnyoff  poured  champagne  into 
the  glasses),  "  this  is  what  I  propose  to  you:  we 
have  just  drunk  the  health  of  our  dear  brother 

190 


RUDIX 

and  his  affianced  bride;  I  now  propose  to  you 
that  we  shall  drink  the  health  of  Dmitry 
Riidin!" 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  and  Pigasoff  stared  at 
Lezhnyoff  with  amazement,  but  BasistofF  gave 
a  great  start,  flushed  crimson  with  delight,  and 
opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"  I  know  him  well,"  pursued  Lezhnyoff: — 
"  his  defects  are  well  known  to  me.  They  are 
the  more  aj^parent,  because  he,  himself,  is  not  a 
petty  man." 

"  Rudin  has  the  temperament  of  a  genius," 
interpolated  BasistofF. 

"  There  is  some  genius  in  him,  I  admit,"  re-  \/^ 
turned   Lezhnyoff; — "  but  as  for  temperament 
....  Therein   lies  his  whole  misfortune,   that   I 
there  is  no  temperament  whatever  about  him.  .  .  . 
Ikit  that  is  not  the  point.    I  wish  to  speak  of  that 
which  is  good  and  rare  in  him.     lie  has  enthusi-\ 
asm ;  and  that,  believe  me,  for  a  phlegmatic  man, 
is  the  most  precious  quality  of  all  in  our  day. 
We  have  all  become  intolerably  reasonable  and 
languid:   we  have   fallen  asleep,   we  have   con- 
gealed, and  we  owe  thanks  to  any  man  who  will, 
even  for  an  instant,  move  us  and  warm  us  up!  \ 
It  is  high  time!  Dost  thou  remember,  Siisha,  how 
1  once  was  talking  to  thee  about  him,  and  re- 
proached him  with  coldness?    I  was  both  right 
and  wrong  then.     That  cohhiess  is  in  his  blood — 
he    is   not   to   blame   for   that — but   not   in   his  ^ 

191  ' 


I  RUDIN 

head.  He  is  not  an  actor,  as  I  termed  him,  he 
is  not  a  deceiver,  nor  a  rogue;  he  lives  at  other 
people's  expense  not  like  an  intriguer,  but 
like  a  child.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  really  will  die  some- 
where in  poverty  and  need;  but  can  one  hurl  a 
stone  at  him  for  that?  He  will  do  nothing  him- 
self, precisely  because  he  has  no  temperament,  no 
blood ;  but  who  has  a  right  to  say,  that  he  will  not 
be,  has  not  already  been,  of  use?  that  his  words 
have  not  sown  many  good  seeds  in  young  souls, 
to  whom  nature  has  not  denied,  as  it  has  to  him, 
the  power  of  action,  the  capacity  for  carrying 
out  their  own  projects?  Yes,  I  myself,  I  was  the 
first  to  undergo  all  that  experience  on  myself.  . . 
Sasha  knows  what  Rudin  was  to  me  in  my  youth. 
I  remember,  that  I,  also,  asserted  that  Rudin's 
words  could  not  affect  people;  but  I  was  talk- 
ing then  about  people  like  myself,  at  my  pres- 
ent age,  of  people  already  elderly  and  broken 
by  life.  A  single  false  tone  in  a  speech — and 
all  its  harmony  has  vanished  for  us;  but  in  a 
young  man,  happily,  the  ear  is  not  yet  so  highly 
developed,  not  so  spoiled.  If  the  essence  of 
what  he  hears  seems  fine  to  him,  what  cares  he 
for  the  tone!  He  will  find  the  right  tone  within 
himself." 

"Bravo!  bravo!"  exclaimed  Basistoff: — 
"how  justly  that  was  said!  As  far  as  Rudin's 
influence  is  concerned,  I  swear  to  you,  that  that 
man  not  only  understood  how  to  shake  you  to 

192 


RUDIX  ^ 

the  depths,  he  moved  you  from  your  place,  he 
did  not  let  vou  halt,  he  converted  vou  from  the 
very  foundations,  he  set  you  on  fire!  " 

"Do  you  hear  that!"  went  on  Lezhnyoff, 
turning  to  PigasofF: — "  what  more  proof  do  you 
need?  You  attack  philosophy;  in  speaking  of  it, 
vou  cannot  find  words  sufficientlv  scornful.  I 
do  not  favour  it  much  mvself,  and  understand 
very  littlfe  ahout  it:  but  our  j^rincipal  misfor- 
tunes do  not  arise  from  philosophy!  The  artful  "^ 
devices  and  ravings  of  philosophy  will  never  get 
inoculated  into  the  Russian:  he  possesses  too 
much  sound  sense  for  that;  but  attacks  upon 
every  aspiration  toward  the  truth  and  know- 
ledge, under  the  name  of  philosophy,  cannot  be 
permitted.  Riidin's  misfortvme  consists  in  the 
fact,  that  he  does  not  know  Russia,  and  that, 
really,  is  a  great  misfortune.  Russia  can  get 
along  without  any  one  of  us,  but  no  one  can  get  i 
along  ^vithout  her.  Woe  to  him  who  thinks  so,  i 
twofold  woe  to  him  who  really  does  get  along  (; 
without  her.  Cosmopolitanism  is  nonsense,  the  | 
cosmo])oh*te  is  a  cipher,  worse  than  a  cipher;  out- 
side of  nationality,  there  is  neither  art,  nor  truth, 
nor  life,  there  is  nothing.  AVithout  physiognomy,  / 
there  is  not  even  an  ideal  face;  only  a  common-! 
place  face  is  possible  without  ])hysiognomy.  But  \ 
I  will  say  it  again,  that  is  not  Riidin's  fault:  it 
is  his  fate,  a  bitter  and  heavy  fate,  for  which  we 
tv'ill  not  blame  him.     It  would  lead  us  very  far 

193 


% 


/ 


RUDIN 

afield,  if  we  were  to  undertake  to  examine  into 
the  question — why  do  Kudins  make  their  appear- 
ance among  us.  But  let  us  be  grateful  to  him 
for  what  good  there  is  in  him.  That  is  easier  than 
it  is  to  be  unjust  to  him,  and  we  have  been  unjust 
to  him.  It  is  not  our  business  to  punish  him  and 
it  is  not  necessary:  he  has  punished  himself  far 
more  harshly  than  he  has  deserved.  .  .  And  God 
grant,  that  imliappiness  has  expelled  all  evil  from 
liim,  and  left  in  him  only  what  is  fine!  I  drink  to 
the  health  of  Riidin!  I  drink  to  the  health  of  the 
comrade  of  my  best  years,  I  drink  to  youth,  to 
its  hopes,  to  its  aspirations,  to  its  truthfulness  and 
honesty,  to  everything  which  made  our  hearts 
beat  high  at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  anything  bet- 
ter than  that  we  have  not  known  and  we  never 
shall  know  in  life.  .  .  I  drink  to  thee,  O  golden 
age,  I  drink  to  the  health  of  Riidin !  " 

All  clinked  glasses  with  LezhnyofF.  Basistoff , 
in  his  fervour,  came  near  smashing  his  glass,  and 
drained  it  off  at  one  draught,  while  Alexandra 
Pavlovna  pressed  Lezhnyoff 's  hand. 

"  I  did  not  suspect  you,  Mikhailo  Mikhailitch, 
of  being  so  eloquent,"  remarked  PigasoiF: — 
"  you  are  fairly  the  equal  of  ]Mr.  Riidin  himself; 
it  even  penetrated  me." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  eloquent,"  replied  Lezh- 
nyoff, not  without  vexation; — "and  I  think  it 
would  be  difficult  to  penetrate  you.  However, 
enough  of  Riidin ;  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  . . 

194 


RUDIX 

What  ....  what  the  deuce  is  his  name?  .  .  . 
Is  Pandalevsky  still  living  at  Darya  oMikhail- 
ovna's?  "  he  added,  turning  to  Basistoff. 

"  Of  course  he  is  still  with  her!  She  has  pro- 
cured a  very  good  position  for  him." 

Lezhnyoff  grinned. 

"  There  's  a  fellow  who  will  not  die  in  povertjs 
vou  mav  bet  on  that." 

Supper  came  to  an  end.  The  guests  separated. 
"\ATien  she  was  left  alone  with  her  husband,  Al- 
exandra Pavlovna  looked  into  his  face  with  a 
smile. 

"  How  fine  thou  wert  to-day,  jNIisha,"  she  said, 
caressing  his  brow  with  her  hand, — "  how  clev- 
erly and  nobly  thou  didst  speak!  But  confess, 
that  thou  wert  a  little  carried  away  in  favour  of 
Rudin,  just  as,  formerly,  thou  wert  carried  away 
against  him." 

"  One  does  not  strike  a  man  who  is  down  .... 
but  I  was  afraid,  then,  that  he  might  turn  thy 
head." 

"  No,"  answered  Alexandra  Pavlovna  ingenu- 
ously : — "  he  always  seemed  to  me  too  learned. 
I  was  afraid  of  him,  and  did  not  know  what  to  say 
in  his  i)resence.  But  PigasofF  sneered  at  him 
quite  maliciously  to-day,  did  n't  he?  " 

"  PigasofF!  "  said  Lezhnyoff.  "  That  is  ex- 
actly why  I  stood  up  so  hotly  for  Riidiii,  because 
l*igasoflf'  was  there.  He  dares  to  call  Rudin  a 
lickspittle!   But  in  my  opinion,  his  role,  the  role 

195 


RUDIN 

of  a  Pigtisoff ,  is  a  hundred  times  worse.  He  is 
in  independent  circumstanees,  he  jeers  at  every- 
body, and  how  he  chngs  to  the  (Hstinguished  and 
the  rich!  Do  you  know,  that  that  Pigasoff,  who 
reviles  everything  and  everybody  with  so  much 
rancour,  and  attacks  phik)sophy  and  women, — 
do  you  know,  that  he,  when  he  was  in  the  service, 
took  bribes,  and  did  other  things  of  that  sort? 
All!  And  that  is  precisely  the  reason!  " 

"Is  it  possible?"  exclaimed  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna.  "  I  did  not  expect  that  in  the  least! .... 
Listen,  ^Misha,"  she  added,  after  a  brief  silence : — 
"  I  want  to  ask  thee  something."  .  .  . 

"What  is  it?" 

"  What  dost  thou  think?  Will  my  brother  be 
happy  with  Natalya?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  .  .  .  there  is  every  proba- 
bility that  he  will.  .  .  She  will  command — 
there  's  no  use  in  making  a  secret  of  that  between 
ourselves — she  is  cleverer  than  he ;  but  he  's  a 
splendid  fellow,  and  loves  her  with  all  his 
soul.  What  more  woidd  you  have?  Why,  here 
are  we — we  love  each  other  and  are  happy, 
are  n  t  we  f 

Alexandra  Pavlovna  smiled,  and  pressed  JNIi- 
khailo  INIikhailitch's  hand. 

On  that  same  day,  when  all  that  we  have  nar- 
rated took  place  in  Alexandra  Pavlovna's 
house, — in  one  of  the  distant  governments  of 

196 


RUDIX 

Russia,  a  wretched  basket  kibitka^  was  jogging 
along,  in  the  very  sultriest  part  of  the  day,  on  the 
highway,  drawn  by  a  troika^  of  peasants'  horses. 
On  the  box,  with  his  legs  braced  slantwise  against 
the  whiffletree,  towered  up  a  miserable,  grey- 
haired  peasant  in  a  tattered  coat,  who  incessantly 
jerked  at  the  rope  reins,  and  flourished  his  small 
whip;  and  in  the  kibitka,  on  a  lean  trunk,  sat  a 
man  of  lofty  stature,  in  a  foraging  cap,  and  an 
old,  dusty  cloak.  It  was  Rudin.  He  sat  with 
drooping  head,  and  with  the  visor  of  his  cap 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  The  uneven  jolts  of 
the  kibitka  tossed  him  from  side  to  side ;  he  seemed 
entirely  insensible,  as  though  in  a  doze.  At  last 
lie  straightened  himself  up. 

"  When  shall  we  reach  the  station?  "  he  asked 
the  peasant,  who  was  sitting  on  the  box. 

"  Why,  dear  little  father,"  replied  the  peasant, 
and  tugged  more  vigorously  than  ever  at  the 
reins: — "when  we  get  up  the  hill,  there  will  be 
two  versts  left,  not  more.  .  .  Come,  thou  beast! 
use  thy  brains.  ...  I  '11  use  them  for  thee!  "  he 
added  in  a  shrill  voice,  and  began  to  lash  the  off 
horse. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  that  thou  drivest  very  badly," 
lemarkcd  Rudin: — "we  have  been  dragging 
along  ever  since  early  morning,  and  cannot  reach 

*  A  team  nf  three  horses  abreast:  the  middle  horse,  a  trotter,  is 
between  tlie  shafts,  ronneeted  by  a  wooden  areh  over  his  head.  The 
side  hf)rses,  nttaelicd  by  traces,  fjallop,  with  heads  bent  downward 
?nd  baekward.     h'ihiUa,  a  covered  travellinjjc  waj^jfon. — Thansi.atoh. 

197 


RUDIN 

our  destination.  Thou  hudst  better  sing  some- 
thing." 

"  Why,  what's  to  be  done,  dear  Httle  father! 
tlie  horses,  as  you  see  for  yourself,  are  starved  to 
death  .  .  .  and  tlien  again,  there 's  the  heat. 
And  we  can't  sing:  we're  not  a  postihon.  .  .  . 
You  snipe,  hey  there,  you  snipe,"  the  peasant 
suddenly  exclaimed,  addressing  a  passer-by  in  a 
grey  smock  and  patched  bast  slippers: — "get 
out  of  the  way,  snipe!  " 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  coachman  thou  art!  "  mut- 
tered the  wayfarer  after  him,  and  halted.  "  Vile 
little  ^Moscow  bone!  "  he  added,  in  a  voice  filled 
with  censure,  shook  his  head,  and  hobbled  onward. 

"  What  art  thou  about?  "  put  in  the  wretched 
little  peasant,  with  pauses,  pulling  at  the  shaft- 
horse: — "  Akh,  thou  art  a  sly  one!  truly,  a  sly 
one.  .  .  ." 

The  exhausted  nags  finally  managed  to  crawl 
to  the  posting-station.  Rudin  got  out  of  the  ki- 
bitka,  paid  the  peasant  (who  did  not  salute  him, 
and  who  turned  the  money  over  in  his  palm  for 
a  long  time — which  meant,  that  he  had  not  re- 
ceived enough  for  liquor) ,  and  himself  carried  his 
trunk  into  the  posting-house  room. 

One  of  my  acquaintances,  who  has  roamed  a 
great  deal  about  Russia  in  his  time,  once  made 
the  remark,  that  if  on  the  walls  of  the  station- 
room  hang  pictures  representing  scenes  from  the 
"  Prisoner  of  the  Caucasus,"  or  Russian  Gener- 

198 


RUDIX 

als,  then  one  can  promptly  procure  horses;  but 
if  the  pictures  present  the  Hfe  of  the  well-known 
gambler,  Georges  de  Germanic,  then  the  trav- 
eller need  not  hope  for  a  speedy  departure:  he 
will  have  an  opportunity  to  admire  the  curled 
crest,  the  white,  open-breasted  waistcoat,  and  the 
extremely  tight  and  short  trousers  of  the  gambler 
in  his  youth,  and  his  fanatical  physiognomy  when 
he,  now  already  an  old  man,  slays  his  own  son, 
with  a  chair  brandished  aloft,  in  a  hovel  with  a 
steep  roof.  In  the  room  which  Rudin  entered, 
hung  precisely  these  pictures  from  "  Thirty 
Years,  or  the  Life  of  a  Gambler."  At  his  shout, 
the  superintendent  made  his  appearance,  sleepy 
(by  the  way — has  anyone  ever  beheld  a  superin- 
tendent who  was  not  sleepy  ? ) ,  and,  without  even 
awaiting  Rudin's  question,  announced,  in  a  lan- 
guid voice,  that  there  were  no  horses. 

"  How  can  you  tell  that  there  are  no  horses," 
said  Rudin: — "when  you  do  not  even  know 
whither  I  am  going?  I  came  hither  with  peasant 
horses." 

"  We  have  no  horses  for  any  direction,"  replied 
the  superintendent.  "  But  whither  are  you 
gomgf 

"  To  *  *  *  sk." 

"  There  are  no  horses,"  repeated  the  superin- 
tendent, and  left  the  room. 

Rudin,  in  irritation,  stepped  to  the  window,  and 
flung  his  caj)  on  the  table.     lie  had  not  changed 

190 


RUDIN 

miicli,  but  liad  grown  sallow  during  the  last  two 
years;  silver  threads  gleamed  here  and  there 
among  his  curls,  and  his  eyes,  which  were  still  very 
liandsome,  seemed,  somehow,  to  have  grown  dull; 
tiny  wrinkles,  the  traces  of  bitter  and  agitating 
emotions,  lay  around  his  mouth,  on  his  cheeks,  and 
on  his  temples. 

His  clothing  was  threadbare  and  old,  and  no 
linen  was  anywhere  visible.  Evidently,  the  time 
of  his  bloom  was  past:  as  the  gardeners  express 
it,  he  had  gone  to  seed. 

He  set  about  reading  the  inscriptions  on  the 
walls  ....  the  familiar  diversion  of  bored  trav- 
ellers ....  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  door 
squeaked,  and  the  superintendent  entered. 

"  There  are  no  horses  for  *  *  *  sk,  and  there 
will  not  be  any  for  a  good  while,"  he  began,  "  but 
there  are  some  going  back  to  *  *  *  off." 

"To  ***off?"  said  Riidin.  "But,  good 
heavens,  that  is  not  on  my  road  at  all.  I  am  on 
my  way  to  Penza,  but  *  *  *  off  lies  in  the  direc- 
tion of  TambofF,  I  think." 

"  What  of  that?  Then  you  can  cross  over  from 
TambofF,  or,  if  not,  you  can  turn  off  from 
*  *  *  off ,  somehow  or  other." 

Riidin  reflected. 

"Well,  all  right,"  he  said  at  last:— "order 
them  to  harness  the  horses.  It 's  all  the  same  to 
me;  I  will  go  to  Tamboff." 

The  horses  were  soon  brought  round.    Riidin 

200 


RUDIX 

carried  out  his  trunk,  got  into  the  peasant  cart, 
seated  himself,  drooped  his  head  as  before.  There 
was  something  helpless  and  sadly  submissive  in 
his  bent  figure.  .  .  .  And  the  troika  crawled 
along  at  a  leisurely  trot,  spasmodically  jingling 
its  bells. 


201 


EPILOGUE 

(Several  more  years  have  elapsed.) 

IT  was  a  chill,  autumnal  day.  A  travelling  ca- 
lash drove  up  to  the  porch  of  the  chief  inn 
in  the  Government  capital  S  *  *  *  ;  from  it, 
slightly  stretching  and  yawning,  alighted  a  gen- 
tleman, who  was  not  yet  elderly,  but  who  had 
already  succeeded  in  acquiring  that  corpulence 
of  body  which  it  has  become  the  custom  to  desig- 
nate as  respectable.  Ascending  the  stairs  to  the 
second  storey,  he  halted  at  the  entrance  to  a 
broad  corridor,  and  seeing  no  one  in  front  of 
him,  he  asked  for  a  room,  in  a  loud  voice.  A  door 
somewhere  banged,  a  long  lackey  sprang  out 
from  behind  a  small  screen,  and  advanced  with  a 
brisk,  sidelong  gait,  flashing  through  the  half- 
dark  corridor  with  his  shining  back  and  tucked-up 
sleeves.  On  entering  his  room,  the  newcomer 
immediatelv  threw  off  his  overcoat  and  scarf, 
seated  himself  on  the  divan,  and  resting  his  closed 
fists  on  his  knees,  first  took  a  look  around  him, 
then  gave  orders  that  his  servant  should  be  called. 
The  lackey  made  an  evasive  movement,  and  van- 
ished.    The  traveller  was  no  other  than  Lezh- 

202 


RUDIX 

nyofF.    The  recruiting  had  called  him  forth  from 
his  country  estate  to  S  *  *  *. 

LezhnvofF's  servant,  a  curlv-headed  and  rosy- 
cheeked  young  fellow,  with  a  sky-blue  girdle, 
and  soft  felt  boots,  entered  the  room. 

"  Well,  here  now,  brother,  we  have  arrived," 
went  on  Lezhnyoflf : — "  but  thou  wert  in  constant 
fear  lest  the  tire  should  fly  off  the  wheel." 

"  We  have  arrived!  "  returned  the  servant,  try- 
ing to  smile,  through  the  upturned  collar  of  his 
overcoat; — "  but  why  that  tire  did  n't  fly  off".  .  .  ." 

"  Is  there  no  one  here?  "  sang  out  a  voice  in 
the  corridor. 

Lezhnyoff*  started,  and  began  to  listen. 

"Hey,  there!  Who's  there?"  repeated  the 
voice. 

Lezhnyoff  rose,  went  to  the  door,  and  hastily 
opened  it. 

Before  him  stood  a  man  of  lofty  stature,  al- 
most completely  grey  and  bent,  in  an  old  vel- 
\eteen  coat  with  bronze  buttons.  Lezhnyoff  in- 
stantly recognised  him. 

"  Rudin!  "  he  exclaimed  with  emotion. 

Riidin  turned  round.  He  could  not  distinguish 
tlie  features  of  I^ezhnyoff ,  who  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  light,  and  he  gazed  at  him  in  per- 
j)lexity. 

"  Don't  vou  know  me?  "  said  Lezhnyoff. 

"  Mikliailo  Mikhailitcli! "  cried  Rudin,  and 
stretched  out  his  liand,  but  was  smitten  with  con- 

203 


KUDIN 

fusion,  and  was  on  the  point  of  drawing  it  back 


again. 


Lezlinyoif  hastily  grasped  it  in  both  of  his. 

"  Come  in,  come  in  to  my  rooml  "  he  said  to 
Riidin,  and  led  him  in. 

"  How  you  have  changed!  "  ejaculated  Lezh- 
nyofF,  after  a  pause,  and  involuntarily  lowering 
his  voice. 

"Yes,  they  tell  me  so!"  returned  Riidin,  as 
his  gaze  roamed  about  the  room.  "  It  is  the  years. 
,  ,  But  here  are  you — the  same  as  ever.  How  is 
Alexandra  ....  your  wife?  " 

"  Thanks, — she  is  well.  But  how  do  you  chance 
to  be  here?  " 

"  I  ?  It  would  take  a  long  time  to  tell  the  story. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  came  hither  quite  by  accident. 
I  was  looking  up  an  acquaintance.  However, 
I  am  very  glad.  .  ." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  dine?  " 

"I?  I  don't  know.  In  some  eating-house  or 
other.     I  must  leave  here  to-day." 

"  You  must?  " 

Rudin  smiled  significantly. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  must.  I  am  being  sent  home,  to 
my  country  estate,  for  residence." 

"  Dine  with  me." 

Rudin,  for  the  first  time,  looked  Lezhnyoff 
straight  in  the  eye. 

"  You  are  proposing  that  I  should  dine  with 
you? "  he  said. 

204 


RUDIX 

"  Yes,  Riidin,  in  our  old  way,  in  comradely 
fashion.  Will  you?  I  had  not  expected  to  en- 
counter you,  and  God  knows  when  we  shall  see 
each  other  again.  You  and  I  must  not  part 
thus!" 

"  Very  well,  I  accept." 

LezhnvofF  shook  Rudin  by  the  hand,  called 
the  servant,  ordered  dinner,  and  gave  orders  that 
a  bottle  of  champagne  should  be  put  on  the  ice. 

During  the  dinner,  Lezhnyoff  and  Rudin,  as 
though  by  common  consent,  talked  constantly  of 
their  student  days,  recalled  many  things,  many 
persons — both  dead  and  living.  At  first,  Rudin 
was  reluctant  to  talk,  but  he  drank  several  glasses 
of  wine,  and  his  blood  began  to  warm  up.  At 
last,  the  lackey  carried  out  the  last  dish.  Lezh- 
nyofF  rose,  locked  the  door,  and  returning  to  the 
table,  seated  himself  directly  opposite  Riidin, 
and  quietly  rested  his  chin  on  both  hands. 

"  Well,  now,"  he  began: — "  tell  me  everything 
that  has  happened  to  you,  since  I  saw  you  last." 

Rudin  looked  at  liCzhnyoff . 

"  My  God! — "  Lezhnyoif  said  to  liimself  once 
more — "  how  he  has  changed,  poor  fellow!  " 

Riidin's  features  had  undergone  little  change, 
especially  since  we  saw  him  at  the  posting-station, 
although  the  stamp  of  approaching  old  age  had 
already  become  im])rinted  on  them;  but  their  ex- 
prcssioTi  had  become  different.    His  eyes  had  an- 

205 


RUDIN 

other  look ;  in  all  his  being,  in  his  movements,  now 
leisurely,  now  incoherently  abrupt,  and  in  his 
chilled,  as  it  were,  broken  speech,  weariness  spoke, 
a  secret  and  quiet  grief,  very  different  from  that 
semi-assunicd  sadness,  of  whicli  he  had  been  wont 
to  make  a  display,  as  youth  in  general  does  while 
full  of  hope  and  of  confident  self-love. 

Tell  you  everything  that  has  happened  to 
/  me?  "  he  said.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  all,  and  it  is 
not  worth  the  while.  .  .  I  have  worn  myself  out 
greatly,  I  have  wandered  not  with  the  body  alone, 
I  have  roamed  with  the  soul  also.  In  what  and 
in  whom  have  I  not  been  disenchanted,  mv 
God!  with  whom  have  I  not  come  in  contact! 
Yes,  with  whom!"  repeated  Rudin,  observing 
that  Lezhnyoff  w^as  looking  into  his  face  with  a 
certain  special  sympathy.  "  How  many  times 
have  not  my  own  words  become  repulsive  to  me 
— I  am  not  speaking  of  them  in  my  own  mouth, 
but  on  the  lips  of  people  who  shared  my  views! 
How  many  times  have  not  I  passed  from  the  ir- 
ritability of  a  baby,  to  the  dull  insensibility  of  a 
horse,  which  no  longer  twitches  its  tail  when  it  is 
cut  with  the  whip.  .  .  How  many  times  have  not 
I  rejoiced,  hoped,  grown  hostile  and  humbled  my- 
self in  vain !  How  many  times  have  I  soared  with 
the  flight  of  a  falcon — and  returned  crawling, 
like  a  snail,  whose  shell  has  been  crushed!  .  .  » 
Where  have  I  not  been,  by  what  roads  have 
I  not  wandered!  .  .  .  And  the  roads  are  some- 

^  20G 


RUDIN 

times  dirty,"  added  Rudin,  and  slightly  turned 
aside.     "  You  know, "he  went  on.  .  .  . 

"  See  here,"  LezhnyofF  interrupted  him; — 
"  once  on  a  time,  we  used  to  call  each  other 
'  thou  '  .  .  .  .  Wouldst  thou  like  it  ?  let  us  re- 
sume our  old  habit.  .  .  Let 's  drink  to  thou! " 

Riidin  started,  half  rose,  and  in  his  ej'-es  flashed 
something  which  words  cannot  express. 

"Let  us  drink!"  said  he: — "I  thank  thee, 
brother,  let  us  drink!  " 

LezhnyofF  and  Riidin  drank  oiF  a  glass. 

"  Thou  knowest,"  began  Riidin  once  more,  with 
emphasis  on  'thou'  and  with  a  smile: — "there 
is  some  sort  of  a  worm  within  me,  which  gnaws 
me,  and  swallows,  and  will  give  me  no  peace  to 
the  end.  It  brings  me  into  contact  with  people — 
at  first,  they  yield  to  my  influence,  and  later 
on  ...  . 

Riidin  waved  his  hand  in  the  air. 

"  Since  I  parted  from  you  .  .  .  from  thee,  I 
Iiave  experienced  and  learned  much.  ...  I  be- 
gan to  live,  I  undertook  something  new  twenty 
times — and  liere  I  am! — tliou  seest!  " 

"  Thou   liadst   no   staying   power,"   remarked    / 
Lezhnyoff*,  as  tliough  to  liimself. 

"  How  canst  thou  say,  that  1  liad  no  staying  "V- 
power!  .  .  .   1  have  never  known  liow  to  construct 
anything;    yes,    and    't  is    difficult    to    construct, 
brother,   when   there  is  no  ground   under  one's 
feet,  wlien  one  is  com])elled  to  create  one's  own  -^ 

207 


RUDIN 

^foundation!  I  will  not  describe  to  thee  all  my 
peregrinations,  that  is,  properly  speaking,  all  my 
failures.  1  will  give  thee  two  or  three  instances 
.  .  .  tliose  incidents  in  my  life  when,  apparently, 
success  was  smiling  on  me,  when  I  had  begun  to 
liave  hopes  of  success, — which  is  not  quite  the 
same  thing.  .  .  ." 

Rudin  tossed  back  his  grey  hair,  already  thin, 
M'ith  the  same  movement  of  the  hand  wherewith, 
in  days  gone  by,  he  had  been  wont  to  throw  aside 
his  thick,  dark  curls. 

"  Well,  listen,"  he  began.  "  In  Moscow,  I 
became  connected  with  a  decidedly  peculiar  gen- 
tleman. He  was  very  wealthy,  and  owned  exten- 
sive estates;  he  was  not  in  government  service. 
His  chief,  his  sole  passion,  was  a  love  for  science, 
for  science  in  general.  Up  to  this  moment,  I 
cannot  comprehend  how  that  passion  made  its 
appearance  in  him!  It  was  as  suitable  for  him 
as  a  saddle  is  for  a  cow.  By  dint  of  exertion  alone 
did  he  keep  himself  on  the  heights  of  mind,  and 
he  hardly  knew  how  to  talk,  but  merely  rolled 
his  eyes  expressively,  and  shook  his  head  signifi- 
cantly. I  have  never  met,  my  dear  fellow,  any 
one  less  gifted  and  poorer  by  nature  than  he 
was.  .  .  In  the  Government  of  Smolensk,  there 
are  spots  where  there  is  sand — and  nothing  else, 
save  here  and  there  grass,  which  not  a  single  ani- 
mal will  eat.  He  did  easily  nothing,  everything 
regularly  crawled  away  from  him  as  far  as  possi- 

208 


RUDIX 

ble:  he  was  crazy  over  making  everji:hing  easy 
difficult.  Had  it  depended  on  his  management, 
people  would  have  eaten  with  their  heels,  indeed 
thev  would.  He  worked,  wrote  and  read  inde- 
f atigably.  He  courted  science  with  a  certain  ob- 
stinate persistency,  with  strange  patience ;  his  self- 
love  was  huge,  and  he  had  a  character  of  iron. 
He  lived  alone,  and  bore  the  reputation  of  an 
eccentric.  I  made  his  acquaintance  ....  well, 
and  he  liked  me.  I  must  confess,  that  I  soon  saw 
through  him;  but  his  zeal  touched  me.  More-i/ 
over,  he  possessed  such  great  means,  so  much  good 
could  be  done  through  him,  so  much  real  service 
could  be  rendered.  .  .  I  settled  down  in  his  house, 
and,  at  last,  went  off  with  him  to  his  country 
place.  My  plans,  brother,  were  vast:  I  dreamed 
of  various  improvements,  innovations " 

"  As  at  Mme.  Lasiinskv's,  thou  wilt  remem- 
her,"  remarked  LezhnyoiF,  with  a  good-natured 
smile. 

"  The  idea!  there,  I  knew  in  my  own  soul,  that 
nothing  would  come  of  my  words;  but  in  this  case 
.  .  .  a  totally  different  field  opened  out  before 
me.  .  .  I  took  with  me  agronomical  books  .  .  . 
it  is  true,  .  .  that  I  had  never  read  a  single  one 
of  them  through  to  the  end  ....  well,  and  I 
set  to  work.  At  first,  things  did  not  go  just  as 
T  had  expected:  but  afterwards,  they  did  seem  to 
be  moving.  ^Ty  new  friend  continued  to  hold  his 
tongue,  and  to  look  on ;  lie  did  not  interfere  with 

200 


RUDIN 

nie, — that  is  to  say,  to  a  certain  degree  he  did 
not  interfere  with  nie.  He  accepted  my  sugges- 
tions, and  carried  them  out,  but  obstinately,  stiffly, 
with  secret  distrust,  and  gave  everything  a  turn 
of  his  own.  He  set  es2)ecial  value  on  every 
thought  of  his  own.  He  would  climb  up  it,  with 
an  effort,  as  a  lady-bug  crawls  up  a  blade  of 
grass;  and  he  would  sit  and  sit  on  it,  as  though 
he  were  pluming  his  wings,  and  getting  ready  to 
fly — and,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  would  tumble 
down,  and  then  crawl  up  again.  .  .  Be  not  sur- 
prised at  all  these  comparisons:  they  fairly 
seethed  in  my  soul  even  then.  Well,  so  I  strug- 
gled along  in  that  way  for  two  years.  Matters 
were  progressing  badly,  despite  all  my  pains.  I 
began  to  grow  weary,  my  friend  bored  me,  I 
began  to  say  caustic  things  to  him,  he  smothered 
me,  like  a  feather-bed;  his  distrust  passed  into 
dull  irritation,  an  unpleasant  feeling  took  pos- 
session of  both  of  us,  we  could  no  longer  con- 
verse about  anything;  he  was  underhandedly  but 
incessantly  trying  to  prove  to  me,  that  he  was  not 
submitting  to  my  influence,  my  arrangements 

were  either  distorted  or  entirely  set  aside 

I  noticed,  at  last,  that  I  stood  toward  Mr. 
Landed  Proprietor  in  the  quality  of  a  hanger-on 
in  the  department  of  mental  exercises.  It  was 
bitter  for  me  to  waste  my  time  and  strength  in 
vain,  it  was  bitter  to  feel  that  I  had  again  and 
again  been  deceived  in  my  expectations.    I  knew 

210 


RUDIX 

very  well  what  I  should  lose  by  going  away ;  but 
I  could  not  conquer  myself,  and  one  day,  as  the 
result  of  a  painful  and  exciting  scene,  of  which 
I  was  a  witness,  and  which  showed  me  my  friend 
from  an  altogether  too  unfavourable  side,  I  quar- 
relled with  him  definitively  and  went  away,  aban- 
doning the  gentleman-pedant  moulded  of  com- 
mon prairie  flour,  with  an  admixture  of  German 
molasses " 

"  That  is  to  say,  thou  didst  fling  away  thy  bit 
of  daily  bread,"  remarked  Lezhnyoff,  and  laid 
both  hands  on  Rudin's  shoulders. 

"  Yes,  and  found  myself  again  light  and  naked 
in  empty  space.  '  Fly  whithersoever  thou  wilt,' 
said  I  .  .  .  Ekh,  let's  have  a  drink!" 

"  To  thy  health!  "  said  Lezhnyoff,  rising  and 
kissing  Rudin  on  the  brow. — "  To  thy  health,  and 
in  memory  of  Pokorsky.  .  .  .  He,  also,  knew 
how  to  remain  poor." 

"  There  's  number  one,  for  you,  of  my  pere- 
grinations," began  Rudin,  after  a  little. — "  Shall 
I  go  on?  " 

"  Go  on,  pray." 

"Ekh!  but  I  don't  feel  like  talking.  I  am 
wear}%  I  tell  thee,  brother.  .  .  Well,  however, 
so  be  it.  After  knocking  about  in  various  places — 
by  the  way,  I  might  tell  tliee  how  I  came  near 
getting  the  post  of  secretary  to  a  well-intentioned 
dignitary,  and  what  came  of  it;  but  that  would 
take  us  too  far.  .  .  .  After  knocking  about  in 

211 


RUDIN 

various  places,  I  decided,  at  last,  to  become  .... 
don't  laugli,  please  ...  a  man  of  business,  a 
practical  man.  It  happened  in  tliis  way:  I  got 
connected  with  a  certain  ....  perhaps  thou 
hast  heard  of  him  ....  with  a  certain  Kur- 
byeeff  .   .   .   .   no?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  heard  of  him.  But,  good  gra- 
cious, Ri'idin,  how  is  it,  that,  with  thy  intelligence, 
thou  didst  not  guess  that  it  was  no  business  of 
thine  to  be  ...  .  pardon  the  pun  ...  a  man  of 
business?  " 

"  I  know,  brother,  that  it  is  not;  besides,  in  what 
does  it  consist?  ....  But  if  thou  hadst  only 
seen  KurbyeefF!  Please  do  not  imagine  that  he 
was  a  sort  of  empty  babbler.  People  used  to  say 
that  I  was  eloquent,  in  days  gone  by.  But,  in 
V  comparison  with  him,  I  count  for  nothing.  He 
was  wonderfully  learned,  well  informed,  with  a 
head,  brother,  a  creative  head,  in  matters  of  in- 
dustry and  commercial  enterprises.  His  brain 
was  fairly  swarming  witli  tlie  boldest,  the  most 
unexpected  projects.  He  and  I  joined  company, 
and  decided  to  use  our  forces  for  a  matter  of 
public  benefit " 

"What  was  it,  may  I  ask?" 

Riidin  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  Thou  wilt  laugh." 

"  Why?  Xo,  I  will  not  laugh." 

**  We  decided  to  convert  one  of  the  rivers  in  the 

212 


RUDIX 

Government  of  K  *  *  *  into  a  navigable  stream," 
said  Riidin,  with  an  awkward  smile. 

"  You  don't  say  so!  Then  that  Kurbyeeff 
must  have  been  a  capitalist?  " 

"  He  was  poorer  than  myself,"  returned  Ru- 
din,  and  softly  hung  his  grey  head. 

LezhnyofF  burst  out  laughing,  but  suddenly 
stopped,  and  took  Riidin's  hand. 

"  Forgive  me,  brother,  pray  do,"  he  said  to 
him: — "  but  I  did  not,  in  the  least,  expect  that. 
Well,  and  so  that  enterprise  of  yours  remained 
on  paper?  " 

"  Not  altogether.  There  was  a  beginning  of 
fulfilment.  We  hired  labourers  ....  well,  and 
they  set  to  work.  But  then  we  encountered  di- 
vers obstacles.  In  the  first  place,  the  proprietors 
of  mills  would  not  understand  us,  and,  in  addi- 
tion to  that,  we  could  not  deal  with  the  water 
without  machinery',  and  we  had  not  the  money 
for  machinery.  Six  months  we  lived  in  earth 
huts.  Kurbyeeff  subsisted  on  bread  alone,  and 
T  did  not  eat  my  fill  either.  However,  I  do  not 
regret  that:  nature  is  wonderful  there.  We 
struggled  and  struggled,  exhorted  the  merchants, 
wrote  letters  and  circulars.  It  ended  in  my 
spending  my  last  co])])er  on  that  pi'oject." 

"Well!"'  remarked  I.ezhnyofF:— "  I  do  not 
think  it  was  difliciilt  to  spend  your  last  copper." 

"  It  was  not  diflicult,  exactly  so." 

213 


RUDIN 

Ri'ulin  stared  out  of  the  window. 

"  But  the  project,  by  heaven,  was  not  a  bad 
one,  and  niiglit  have  produced  enormous  profits." 

"And  what  became  of  Kurbyeeff?"  inquired 
LezhnyofF. 

"  Of  him?  He  is  in  Siberia  now,  he  has  turned 
gold-miner.  And  thou  wilt  see,  he  will  acquire 
a  competence.     He  will  not  go  to  the  wall." 

"  Possibly;  but  thou  wilt  certainly  not  acquire 
a  competence." 

"  I?  What  is  to  be  done!  However,  I  know: 
I  always  have  been  an  empty  man  in  thine  eyes." 

"  Thou?     Hush,  brother! There  was 

a  time,  really,  when  only  thy  dark  sides  were  ap- 
parent to  my  eye;  but  now,  believe  me,  I  have 
learned  to  value  thee.  Thou  wilt  not  acquire  a 
fortune.  .  .  Yes,  and  for  that  I  love  thee  .... 
upon  my  w  ord !  " 

Riidin  smiled  faintly. 

"Really?" 

"I  respect  thee  for  that!"  repeated  Lezh- 
nyoff ; — "  dost  thou  understand  me?  " 

Both  remained  silent  for  a  space. 

"Well,  shall  we  proceed  to  number  three  ?  " 
asked  Rudin. 

"  Do  me  that  favour." 

"  At  your  service.  Number  three,  and  the  last. 
I  have  only  just  got  rid  of  that  number.  But 
am  not  I  boring  thee?  " 

"  Go  on,  go  on." 

214 


RUDIN 

"  Well,  you  see,"  began  Riidin: — "  one  day  I 
was  meditating  at  leisure.  .  .  I  have  always  had 
plenty  of  leisure — and  I  thought :  I  have  consid- 
erable knowledge,  my  desires  are  good  ....  see 
here,  thou  surely  wilt  not  deny  that  my  desires 
are  good?  " 

"I  should  think  not!" 

"  On  all  other  points,  I  have  suffered  more  or 
less  defeat  .  .  .  wh}^  should  not  I  turn  ped- 
agogue, or,  to  put  it  more  simplj^  t^acli^r  .  .  . 
rather  than  live  thus  in  vain.  .  ." 

Rudin  paused  and  sighed. 

"  Rather  than  live  in  vain,  would  it  not  be  bet- 
ter to  endeavour  to  communicate  to  others  what 
I  know:  perchance,  they  will  derive  some  benefit 
from  my  knowledge.  JNIy  capacities  are  not  ordi- 
nary, in  short,  I  am  a  master  of  language.  .  . 
So  I  determined  to  devote  myself  to  this  new 
business.  I  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  in  finding 
a  place;  I  did  not  wish  to  give  private  lessons; 
there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  in  the  lower 
schools.  At  last,  I  succeeded  in  obtaining  the\ 
post  of  lecturer  in  the  gymnasium  here."  y 

"  Lecturer — on  what?  "  asked  Lezhnyoff. 

*'  Lecturer  on  Russian  literature.  I  will  tell 
thee  tliis, — never  have  I  undertaken  a  single  af- 
fair with  so  much  zeal  as  in  this  case.  The 
thouglit  of  acting  on  youth  inspired  me.  Three 
weeks  did  I  spend  over  the  composition  of  my 
first  lecture." 

215 


RUDIN 

"Hast  thou  not  got  it  with  thee?"  inquired 
Lezhnyoff. 

"  No;  it  got  lost  somewhere.  It  turned  out 
quite  well,  and  pleased  people.  I  seem  to  beliold, 
now,  the  faces  of  my  auditors, — kind,  young- 
faces,  with  an  expression  of  open-hearted  atten- 
tion, even  of  amazement.  I  mounted  the  tribune, 
read  my  lecture  in  a  fever;  I  thought  there  was 
enough  of  it  to  last  more  than  an  hour,  and  in 
twenty  minutes  I  had  finished  it.  The  inspector 
was  sitting  there — a  dry  old  man,  in  silver- 
mounted  spectacles,  and  a  short  wig, — he  inclined 
his  head  in  mv  direction  from  time  to  time. 
When  I  had  finished,  and  had  sprung  from  my 
chair,  he  said  to  me :  '  Very  good,  sir,  only  a  trifle 
high-flown,  rather  obscure,  and,  moreover,  there 
was  very  little  said  about  the  subject  itself.'  But 
the  gymnasium  pupils  gazed  after  me  with  re- 
spect ....  really  they  did.  That 's  the  pre- 
cious thing  about  young  people.  I  delivered  my 
second  lecture  from  manuscript,  and  the  third  in 
the  same  way  .  .  .  and  after  that,  I  began  to 
improvise." 

"And  wert  successful?"  inquired  Lezhnyoff. 

"  I  was  very  successful.  I  imparted  to  my 
hearers  everything  that  was  in  my  soul.  Among 
them  there  were  three  or  four  lads,  who  were 
reallv  remarkable;  the  rest  did  not  understand 
me  well.  However,  I  must  admit,  that  even  those 
who  did  understand  me  sometimes  disconcerted 

216 


RUDIX 

me  by  their  questions.  But  I  did  not  become  de- 
spondent. As  for  loving  me,  they  all  did  that. 
But  then  an  intrigue  was  begun  against  me  .  .  .  .y' 
or  no!  there  was  no  intrigue  whatever;  but  I,  sim- 
ply, had  got  out  of  my  sphere.  I  embarrassed 
the  others,  and  they  embarrassed  me.  I  lectured 
to  the  gymnasium  lads,  in  a  manner  different 
from  that  in  which  students  are  always  lectured 
to;  my  hearers  carried  but  little  away  from  my 
lectures;  ...  I  was  but  badly  acquainted  with 
facts  myself.  Moreover,  I  did  not  content  my- 
self with  the  circle  of  action  which  had  been  pre- 
scribed for  me  ....  thou  knowest  that  that  is 
my  weakness.  I  wanted  radical  reforms,  and  I\ 
give  thee  my  word  of  honour,  that  these  reforms 
were  practical  and  easy.  I  hoped  to  carry  them) 
out  through  the  director,  upon  whom  I  at  first 
liad  some  influence.  His  wife  helped  me.  I  have 
met  very  few  such  women  in  the  course  of  my  life, 
brother.  She  was  nearly  forty  years  of  age;  but 
she  believed  in  good,  she  loved  everything  that 
was  excellent,  like  a  young  girl  of  fifteen,  and 
was  not  afraid  to  speak  out  her  convictions  before 
any  one  whatsoever.  I  shall  never  forget  her 
no})le  enthusiasm  and  purity.  By  her  advice,  I 
began  to  write  out  a  plan.  .  .  But  at  this  point 
\  was  undermined,  my  rej)utation  was  ])lackcned 
to  her.  T  was  particularly  injured  by  the  teacher 
of  mathematics,  a  sharj),  ])ilious  little  man,  who 
})clieved  in  nothing,  after  the  fashion  of  PigasofF, 

217 


RUDIN 

only  nnic'li  more  active  than  he.  .  .  .  By  the 
way,  what  lias  become  of  Pigasoff,  is  he  still 
alive  ("  " 

"  Yes,  and  just  imagine,  he  has  married  a  wo- 
man of  the  petty  burgher  class,  who  beats  him, 
they  say." 

"  And  serve  him  right!    And  is  Natalya  Alex- 
yeevna  well? " 
1  es. 

"  Is  she  happy?  " 
1  es. 

Rudin  said  nothing  for  a  while. 

"  What  the  deuce  was  I  talking  about?  .... 
oh,  yes!  about  the  teacher  of  mathematics.  He 
conceived  a  hatred  for  me ;  he  compared  my  lec- 
tures to  fireworks,  he  caught  up  on  the  fly  every 
expression  that  was  not  entirely  clear,  he  once 
even  contradicted  me  about  some  monument  or 
other  of  the  XV  century  .  .  .  but  the  chief  point 
was,  that  he  suspected  my  intentions;  my  last 
soap-bubble  hit  against  him,  as  against  a  pin,  and 
broke.  The  inspector,  with  whom  I  had  not  got 
on  from  the  first,  stirred  up  the  director  against 
me;  a  row  ensued;  I  would  not  yield,  I  waxed  an- 
gry, the  matter  was  brought  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  authorities ;  I  was  forced  to  resign.  I  did  not 
stop  there,  I  tried  to  prove  that  they  could  not 
treat  me  like  that  ....  but  they  can  treat  me 
as  they  please  ...  I  am  now  compelled  to  leave 
this  place." 

218 


KUDIN 

A  silence   followed.     Both   friends   sat  with 
drooping  heads. 

Rudin  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Yes,  brother,"  he  began: — "now  I  can  say 
with  KoltzofF:  '  Whither  hast  thou  led  me, 
hounded  me,  O  my  youth,  that  no  longer  have  I 
where  to  set  my  foot ! '  .  .  .  And,  nevertheless, 
am  I  good  for  nothing,  is  there  really  no  work  for 
me  on  earth '.  I  have  frequently  put  that  question 
to  myself,  and,  strive  as  I  might  to  humble  my- 
self in  my  own  eyes,  I  nevertheless  could  not  but 
be  conscious  of  powers  within  myself,  which  are 
not  given  to  all  men !  Then  why  do  these  powers 
remain  sterile?  And  here  is  another  thing:  dost 
thou  remember,  when  thou  and  I  were  abroad,  I 
was  self-conceited  and  false.  .  .  .  The  fact  was, 
that  I  had  not  then  comprehended  what  I  wished, 
I  intoxicated  myself  with  words,  and  believed  in 
phantoms ;  but  now,  I  give  thee  my  word  of  hon- 
our, I  can  declare  aloud,  in  the  presence  of  all 
the  world,  everything  which  I  desire.  I  posi- 
tively have  nothing  to  conceal:  I  am  thoroughly, 
and  in  the  most  essential  meaning  of  the  word,  a 
well-meaning  man;  I  abase  myself,  I  wish  to 
adapt  myself  to  circumstances,  I  wish  for  little, 
I  wish  to  attain  to  a  proximate  goal,  I  wish  to  be 
of  even  the  shglitcst  use.  Xo!  I  cannot  succeed! 
W'liat  is  tbe  meaning  of  tliis?  Wliat  is  it  that 
[)revents  my  living  and  being  active  like  other  ^ 
people?  ...  That  is  tlic  only  thing   I   dream  of  / 

219 


RUDIN 

now.  But  no  sooner  do  I  emerge  into  a  definite 
position,  no  sooner  do  1  halt  at  a  fixed  point,  than 
fate  fairly  thrusts  me  off  to  a  distance.  ...  I 
have  begun  to  fear  it — my  fate.  .  .  .  Why  is  all 
thisl"    Solve  this  riddle  for  me!  " 

"Riddle!"  repeated  LezhnyofF.  "Yes,  it  is 
true.  Thou  hast  always  been  a  riddle  for  me  also. 
Even  in  thy  youth,  when,  after  some  petty  sally 
or  other,  thou  wouldst  suddenly  begin  to  talk  in 
such  a  way  that  the  heart  quivered,  and  then 
wouldst  begin  again  ....  well,  thou  knowest 
what  I  mean  to  say  .  .  .  even  then,  I  did  not  un- 
derstand thee:  that  was  precisely  the  reason  why 
I  ceased  to  love  thee — there  was  so  much  power  in 
thee,  so  much  indefatigable  aspiration  toward 
the  ideal.  .  .  ." 

"Words,  nothing  but  words!  there  were  no 
deeds!  "  broke  in  Riidin. 

"  There  were  no  deeds!  What  deeds.  .  .  ." 

"  What  deeds?     To  support  a  blind  peasant 
woman  and  all  her  family  by  my  labours,  as  Prya- 
zhentzoff  did,  thou  wilt  remember.  ,  .  .  There  's 
a  deed  for  thee." 
^    "  Yes;  but  a  good  word  is  a  deed  also." 

Riidin  gazed  in  silence  at  Lezhnyoff,  and 
slowly  shook  his  head. 

Lezhnyoff  tried  to  find  something  to  say,  and 
passed  his  hand  over  his  face. 

"And  so,  thou  art  going  to  thy  estate?"  he 
asked,  at  last. 

220 


RUDIN 

"  Yes." 

"  But  hast  thou  still  an  estate  belonging  to 
thee?" 

"  There  is  something  of  that  sort  left  yonder. 
Two  souls  and  a  half.  There  is  a  corner  wherein 
to  die.  Perchance,  thou  art  thinking,  at  this  mo- 
ment :  '  And  even  now,  he  could  not  get  along 
without  flowery  phrases!'  Plu'ases,  in  point  of-/' 
fact,  have  been  my  undoing;  they  have  devoured 
me  to  the  very  end,  I  have  not  been  able  to  rid 
myself  of  them.  But  what  I  have  just  said  is  not 
a  mere  phrase.  These  white  locks,  these  wrinkles, 
are  not  phrases,  brother;  these  ragged  elbows  are 
not  plirases.  Thou  hast  always  been  stern  with 
me,  and  thou  wert  just;  but  this  is  no  time  for 
sternness,  when  everything  is  already  at  an  end, 
and  tliere  is  no  more  oil  in  the  lamp,  and  the  lamp 
itself  is  shattered,  and  the  wick  is  on  the  very 

verge  of  smoking  itself  out Death,  bro-/ 

ther,  must  reconcile,  at  last " 

LezhnyofF  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Rudin!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  why  dost  thou  say 
this  to  me?  How  have  I  deserved  this  from  thee? 
What  sort  of  a  judge,  and  what  sort  of  a  man 
sliould  I  be,  if,  at  the  sight  of  thy  hollow  cheeks 
and  wrinkles,  the  word  '  phrases  '  could  enter  my 
mind?  Dost  thou  wish  to  know  what  I  think  of 
thee?  Ver\''  well!  I  tliink:  here  is  a  man  .  .  . 
with  his  capacities,  what  might  not  he  attain  to, 
what  earthly  benefits  might  not  he  now  possess,  if 

221 


RUDIN 

he  only  willed  it !  .  .  .  .  but  I  meet  him  hungry, 
without  a  shelter " 

"  I  arouse  thy  pity/'  said  Rudin  in  a  dull 
voice. 

"  No,  there  thou  art  mistaken.  Thou  inspirest 
me  with  respect — that 's  M^hat  I  mean.  Who  pre- 
vented thy  spending  years  and  years  with  that 
landed  proprietor,  thy  friend,  who,  I  am  fully 
convinced,  if  thou  hadst  but  been  willing  to 
knuckle  under  to  him,  would  have  given  thee  a 
secure  position?  Why  couldst  thou  not  live  in 
harmony  at  the  gymnasium,  why — O  strange 
man! — with  whatever  designs  thou  didst  begin  a 
thing,  hast  thou,  in  every  case,  inevitably  wound 
up  by  sacrificing  thy  personal  interests,  hast  not 
struck  root  in  evil  soil,  however  rich  it  might  be?  " 

"  I  was  born  a  rolling  stone,"  continued  Rudin 
with  a  melancholy  smile.  "  I  cannot  stop  my- 
self." 

"  That  is  true;  but  the  reason  why  thou  canst 
not  stop  thyself  is  not,  that  in  thee  lives  a  worm, 
as  thou  hast  said  to  me  at  the  beginning  of  this 
conversation.  .  .  'T  is  not  a  worm  that  lives  in 
thee,  't  is  not  the  spirit  of  idle  uneasiness, — it  is 
the  fire  of  love  for  the  truth,  it  burns  within  thee, 
and  it  is  evident,  despite  all  thy  talk,  that  it 
burns  in  thee  more  powerfully  than  in  many  who 
do  not  even  regard  themselves  as  egoists,  but,  in 
all  probability,  call  thee  an  intriguer.  Yes,  I 
\  would  have  been  the  first,  had  I  been  in  thy  place, 

222 


RUDIN 

to  have  forced  that  worm,  long  ago,  to  hold  its  ^ 
peace  within  me,  and  I  would  have  reconciled 
myself  to  everything;  but  in  thee  there  has  not 
even  been  an  access  of  bile,  and  thou,  I  am  con- 
vinced of  it,  art  ready  this  very  day,  this  very  mo- 
ment, to  set  about  some  new  undertaking,  like  a 
young  lad.  " 

"  No,  brother,  I  am  weary  now,"  said  Rudin. 
"  I  have  had  enough." 

"  Weary!  Any  one  else  would  have  died  long 
ago.  Thou  sayest  that  death  reconciles ;  but  does 
not  life  reconcile,  thinkest  thou?  He  who  has 
lived  long,  and  has  not  become  lenient  towards 
others,  does  not  deserve  leniency  himself.  And 
who  can  say,  that  he  does  not  stand  in  need  of 
leniency  ?  Thou  hast  done  what  thou  couldst,  thou 
hast  striven  as  long  as  thou  wert  able.  .  .  . 
What  more  can  be  demanded?  Our  roads  have 
lain  apart  .  .  .  ." 

"  Thou  art  an  entirely  different  man  from  me, 
brother,"  interposed  Rudin,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Our  roads  have  lain  apart,"  pursued  Lezh- 
nyoff : — "  perliaps,  that  is  precisely  the  reason 
wliy,  tliaiiks  to  my  position,  to  my  cold  blood, 
and  to  other  fortunate  circumstances,  nothing 
lias  prevented  my  becoming  a  stay-at-home,  and 
remaining  a  si)ectator,  with  arms  folded;  but  thou 
hast  been  forced  to  go  forth  into  the  field,  with 
sleeves  stripped  up,  to  toil  and  work.  Our  roads 
have  lain  apart  .  .  .  but  observe,  how  near  we 

223 


J 


J 


i 


RUDIN 

are  to  each  other.  For  we  talk  ahiiost  an  iden- 
tical language,  we  understand  each  other  at  half 
a  hint;  we  grew  up  on  the  same  sentiments.  Not 
many  of  us  are  left  now,  hrother ;  for  thou  and  I 
are  the  last  of  the  JNIohicansI  We  might  get  an- 
gry, even  quarrel,  in  the  olden  years,  when  we 
had  a  great  deal  of  life  ahead  of  us;  but  now, 
when  the  tln'ong  is  thinning  around  us,  when  the 
new  generations  are  swee^^ing  past  us,  to  goals 
which  are  not  our  goals,  we  must  cling  fast  to  each 
other.  Let  us  clink  glasses,  brother,  and  let  us 
sing,  as  of  old:  '  Gaudeamus  igitur!'" 

The  friends  touched  glasses,  and  sang  in 
deeply  moved,  real  Russian  voices  out  of  tune, 
the  ancient  student  song. 
^  "  So,  now  thou  art  going  to  thy  village,"  began 
LezhnyofF  again.  "  I  do  not  think  thou  wilt  re- 
main there  long,  and  I  cannot  imagine  how, 
where  and  when  thou  wilt  wind  up.  .  .  But  re- 
member this :  whatever  may  happen  to  thee,  thou 
hast  always  a  place,  there  is  always  a  nest,  where 
thou  mayest  take  refuge.  That  is  my  house  .... 
dost  thou  hear  me,  old  fellow?  Thought  also  has 
its  invalid  soldiers:  they  must  have  an  asylum." 

Riidin  rose. 

"  I  thank  thee,  brother,"  he  went  on.    "  I  thank 
thee !    I  will  not  forget  this  of  thee.    Only,  I  am 
not  worthy  of  an  asylum.     I  have  ruined  my  Qwn__ 
life,  and  I  have  not  served  thought  as  I  should 
have  done." 

"      ^  224 


RUDIN 

"  Hush!  "  continued  Lezhnyoff.  "  Every  one  . 
remains  what  nature  made  him,  and  nothing  more 
can  be  demanded  of  him !  Thou  hast  called  thy- 
self the  AVandering  Jew.  .  .  .  And  how  dost 
thou  know,  perhaps  thou  also  must  wander  eter- 
nally thus,  perhaps  thou  wilt,  thereb}^  fulfil  a 
higher  destination,  of  which  thou  thyself  knowest 
nothing:  not  for  nothing  has  the  wisdom  of 
the  people  declared,  that  we  all  go  as  God  / 
wills." 

"  Art  thou  going?  "  went  on  Lezhnyoff,  per- 
ceiving that  Rudin  was  picking  up  his  cap. 
"  Wilt  thou  not  spend  the  night  here?  " 

"  I  am  going!  farewell.  Thanks.  .  .  But  I 
shall  end  badly." 

"  God  only  knows  about  that.  .  .  Thou  art  de- 
termined to  go?  " 

"  Yes.     Good-bye.     Bear  me  no  ill-will." 

"  Well,  and  do  thou  bear  me  no  ill-will  .  .  . 
and  do  not  forget  what  I  have  told  thee.  Good- 
bye " 

The  friends  embraced.  Budin  swiftly  left  the 
room. 

I^ezhnyofF  paced  up  and  down  the  room  for 
a  long  time,  halted  in  front  of  the  window,  re- 
flected, muttered,  in  an  undertone:  "Poor  fel- 
low! "  and  seating  himself  at  the  table,  began  to 
write  a  letter  to  his  wife. 

Outside,  the  wind  rose,  and  howled  with  an 
ominous    roar,    beating    heavily    and    spitefully 

225 


RUniN 

against  the  rattling  window-panes.  The  long, 
autumnal  night  closed  in.  It  is  well  with  him, 
who,  on  such  nights  is  sitting  under  the  shelter  of 
a  house,  who  has  a  warm  nook.  .  .  And  may  the 
Lord  help  all  shelterless  wanderers! 

At  the  sultry  noonday  of  July  26,  1848,  in  Paris, 
when  the  insurrection  of  the  "  national  working- 
men  "  had  been  almost  suppressed,  in  one  of 
the  narrow  alleys  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Antoine 
a  battalion  of  the  line  captured  a  barricade.  It 
had  already  been  shattered  by  several  cannon- 
shots;  those  of  its  defenders  who  remained  alive, 
had  abandoned  it,  and  were  thinking  only  of  their 
safety,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  on  its  very  crest, 
upon  the  crushed  body  of  an  overturned  omnibus, 
there  appeared  a  tall  man  in  an  old  coat,  girt 
about  with  a  red  scarf,  and  with  a  straw  hat  on  his 
grey,  dishevelled  locks.  In  one  hand  he  grasped 
a  red  flag,  in  the  other,  a  curved,  dull  sword,  and 
shouted  something  in  a  strained,  shrill  voice,  as 
he  scrambled  upwards  and  waved  the  flag  and  the 
sword.  A  sharpshooter  of  Vincennes  took  aim  at 
him, — and  fired.  .  .  .  The  tall  man  dropped  the 
flag,  and  fell  face  downward,  like  a  sack,  exactly 
as  though  he  were  bowing  down  to  some  one's 
feet.  .  .  .  The  bullet  had  passed  straight  through 
his  heart. 

"  Tiens! "  said  one  of  the  fleeing  insurgents  to 
another:  "  On  vient  de  tuer  le  Polonais." 

226 


"  B'lgrcl "  replied  the  latter,  and  both  flung 
themselves  into  the  cellar  of  a  house,  aJl  of  whose 
shutters  were  closed,  and  its  walls  streaked  with 
t|n,e  traces  of  bullets  and  cannon-balls. 

That  "  Polonais  "  was — Dmitry  Rudin. 

END 


'121 


A  KING  LEAR  OF 
THE  STEPPES 

(1870) 


A  KING  LEAR  OF 
THE  STEPPES 

SIX  of  US  were  assembled  one  winter  evening 
at  the  house  of  an  old  comrade  of  university 
days.  A  discussion  arose  about  Shakespeare, 
about  his  types,  about  the  profundity  and  fidelity 
with  which  they  have  been  delineated  from  the 
very  inmost  recesses  of  human  "  nature."  We 
particularly  admired  their  vivid  truth,  their 
everyday  character;  each  of  us  enumerated  the 
Hamlets,  the  Othellos,  the  Falstaifs,  even  the 
Richard  the  Thirds  and  the  Macbeths — (these 
last,  it  is  true,  only  as  possibilities) — with  whom 
he  had  happened  to  come  in  contact. 

"  And  I,  gentlemen," — exclaimed  our  host, 
a  man  already  elderly, — "  have  known  a  King 
Lear!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Precisely  that.  If  you  like,  I  will  tell  you 
the  story." 

"  Pray  do." 

And  our  friend  immediately  began  his  nar- 
rative. 

231 


]My  entire  childhood,  and  my  early  youth,  up  to 
the  age  of  twenty,  he  began, — I  spent  in  the 
country,  on  the  estate  of  my  mother,  a  wealthy 
landowner  of  the  *  *  *  Government.  Perhaps  the 
most  clear-cut  impression  of  that  already  distant 
epoch,  which  remains  in  my  memory,  is  the  figure 
of  our  nearest  neighbour,  a  certain  Martyn  Pe- 
trovitch  KharlofF.  And  it  would  be  difficult 
indeed  to  erase  that  impression:  I  have  never,  in 
all  the  course  of  my  life  since  then,  encountered 
anything  like  KharlofF.  Picture  to  yourselves 
a  man  of  gigantic  stature!  On  his  huge  trunk 
sat  a  monstrous  head,  somewhat  awry,  and  with- 
out the  slightest  trace  of  a  neck:  above  it  rose  a 
regular  hay-cock  of  tangled,  yellowish  grey  hair, 
starting  almost  from  his  bristling  eyebrows.  On 
the  broad  expanse  of  his  bluish,  as  it  were  flayed 
face  jutted  forth  a  robust,  wen-like  nose,  dimin- 
utive blue  eyes  glared  arrogantly,  and  a  mouth 
gaped,  equally  tiny,  but  crooked  and  cracked,  of 
the  same  colour  as  the  rest  of  the  face.  The  voice 
emitted  from  this  mouth,  although  hoarse,  was 

extremely    powerful   and    sibilant Its 

sound  reminded  the  hearer  of  the  clatter  of  iron 

232 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

bars  which  are  being  transported  in  a  cart  along 
a  bad  pavement — and  Kharloflf  talked  as  though 
he  were  shouting  at  some  one  on  the  other  side  of 
a  broad  chasm,  in  a  high  wind.  It  was  difficult 
to  say  precisely  what  Kharloff 's  face  expressed, 
so  vast  was  it.  .  .  .  It  could  not  be  taken  in  with 
a  single  glance!  But  it  was  not  disagreeable — 
a  certain  majesty  was  even  discernible  in  it,  only 
it  was  prodigious  and  remarkable.  And  what 
hands  he  had — regular  pillows!  what  fingers, 
what  feet!  I  remember,  that  I  could  not  gaze 
without  alarm  at  ^Nlartyn  Petrovitch's  back,  two 
arshins  ^  in  length,  at  his  shoulders,  which  re- 
sembled millstones;  but  his  ears,  in  particular 
amazed  me !  regular  kalatches "  they  were,  with 
all  the  folds  and  turns:  his  cheeks  fairly  thrust 
them  up  on  both  sides.  ]\Iartyn  Petrovitch  wore 
— both  winter  and  summer — a  coat,  tightly  fitted 
to  his  figure,  of  green  cloth,  girt  with  a  narrow 
Tcherkessian  belt  of  leather,  and  oiled  boots;  I 
never  saw  a  neckerchief  on  him,  and  what  was 
there  for  him  to  tie  a  neckerchief  about?  He 
])reathed  slowlv  and  heavilv,  like  an  ox,  but  he 
walked  noiselessly.  One  miglit  have  supposed 
that,  when  he  happened  to  find  liimself  in  a  room, 
he  lived  in  constant  terror  of  smashing  and  over- 
turning everytliing,  and  therefore  moved  from 
place  to   place  cautiously,   chiefly   sideways,   as 

*  An  arslifn  is  twcnty-ei^fht  inches. —Tkansi.ator. 
2  A  favourite  hot  whcaten  roll  of  pccuhar  siiapc.  — Thanslatoh. 

233 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

though  by  stealth.  He  was  possessed  of  genu- 
inely hereulean  strength,  and  in  conse(juence  en- 
joyed great  respect  in  the  neighbourhood:  our 
people,  down  to  the  present  day,  worship  epic 
lieroes.  Legends  were  even  invented  about  him : 
it  was  narrated,  that  he  had  once  encountered  a 
bear  in  the  woods,  and  almost  vanquished  him; 
that  having  caught  a  strange  peasant  among  his 
beehives,  he  flung  him,  together  with  his  cart 
and  horse,  over  the  wattled  fence,  and  other 
things  of  the  same  sort.  KharlofF  himself  never 
bragged  of  his  strength.  "  If  I  have  a  blessed 
right  hand," — he  was  accustomed  to  say, — "  it  is 
because  such  is  the  will  of  God!" — He  was 
proud:  only,  he  was  not  proud  of  his  strength, 
but  of  his  station,  of  his  good  birth,  of  his  brains. 

"  Our  family  is  Vshedish  "  (he  always  pro- 
nounced Swedish  in  that  manner),  "descended 
from  the  Vshede  Kharlus,"  he  asserted: — "  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  Prince  Ivan  Vasilievitch  the 
Blind — (just  think  of  that!)  he  came  to  Russia; 
and  that  Vshede  Kharlus  did  not  want  to  be  a 
Finnish  Count — but  he  wanted  to  be  a  Russian 
noble,  and  he  inscribed  himself  in  the  Golden 
Book.^  So  that 's  where  we  Kharloffs  come 
from!  ....  And,  for  the  same  reason,  all  we 
Kharloffs  are  born  with  fair  hair,  with  light  eyes, 
and  with  clear  skins!  because  we  are  snow-men!  " 

"But,   Martyn   Petrovitch,"— I   tried   to   re- 

*  The  official  genealogy.  — Tuanslatoh. 

234 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

tort, — "  Ivan  Vasilievitch  the  Blind  never  existed 
at  all,  but  there  was  an  Ivan  Vasilievitch  the 
Terrible.  The  Blind  was  the  appellation  of  a 
certain  Prince  Vasily  Vasilievitch."  ^ 

"Go  on  with  thine  idle  chatter!  "—KharlofF  I 
answered  me  calmly: — "  if  I  say  it,  it  was  so!  " 

Once  upon  a  time,  my  mother  took  it  into  her 
head  to  praise  Kharloff ,  to  his  face,  for  his  really 
remarkable  disinterestedness. 

"  Ekli,  Natalva  Xikolaevna!  " — he  said,  almost 
angrily, — "  a  pretty  thing  you  have  found  to 
praise  me  for!  We  gentle  born  cannot  be  other- 
wise: let  no  low-born  rapscallion,  bee-keeper,  or 
dependent  dare  to  tliink  ill  of  us !  I  am  KharlofF, 
yonder  is  the  place  whence  I  derive  my  de- 
scent   "   (here  he  pointed  with  his  finger 

to  some  place  very  high  above  him — to  the  ceil- 
ing),— "and  the  idea  that  there  should  not  be 
lionour  in  me!   Why,  how  is  that  possible?  " 

On  another  occasion  a  dignitary  who  was  the 
guest  of  my  mother,  took  it  into  his  head  to  make 
fun  of  ]Martyn  Petrovitch.  The  latter  again  be- 
gan to  talk  a])out  the  Vshede  Kharlus  wlio  had 
come  to  Russia 

"In  the  days  of  Tzar  Pea?"" — interrupted 
the  dignitary. 

"  Xo,  not  in  the  days  of  Tzar  Pea, — biit  in 

'  laterally:  The  Dark,  14-25-1462.  He  was  the  first  Grand  Prince 
crowned  at  Moscow. —Thavsi.atoh. 

2  Kf)iiival«'nt  to  "Kin);  David,"  or  any  other  absurdly  remote  an- 
cestor. —  1  H  A  N  SI,  ATOK. 

235 


A  KING  LEAK  OF  THE  STEPPES 

the  clays  of  Grand  Prince  Ivan  Vasilievitch  the 
Bh'nd.'' 

"  Why,  I  had  supposed," — went  on  the  digni- 
tary,— "  that  your  race  was  much  more  ancient, 
and  went  back  even  to  antechhivian  times,  when 
there  were  mastodons  and  megalotheriums " 

These  learned  terms  were  totally  unknown  to 
INIartyn  Petrovitch;  but  he  understood  that  the 
dignitary  was  ridiculing  him. 

"  Perhaps  it  does," — he  burst  out, — "  our  race 
is  really  very  ancient:  at  the  time  when  my  an- 
cestor arrived  in  jNIoscow,  they  say  that  a  fool,  the 
equal  of  your  Excellency,  dwelt  there,  and  only 
one  such  fool  is  born  in  a  thousand  years." 

The  dignitary  flew  into  a  rage,  but  Kharloff 
threw  back  his  head,  thrust  out  his  chin,  snorted, 
and  took  himself  off.  Two  days  later,  he  made  his 
appearance  again.  ]My  mother  began  to  reprove 
him.  "  Read  him  the  lesson,  madam," — inter- 
rupted Kharloff: — "don't  dash  forward  head- 
long, inquire,  first  of  all,  with  whom  you  are  deal- 
ing. He  's  very  young  still,  he  needs  teaching." 
The  dignitary  was  nearly  of  the  same  age  as 
Kharloff;  but  that  giant  had  acquired  the  habit 
of  looking  upon  everybody  as  a  stripling.  He 
had  the  greatest  confidence  in  himself,  and  feared 
absolutely  no  one.  "  Can  they  do  anything  to 
me?  Where  in  the  world  is  there  such  another 
man  " — he  was  wont  to  ask,  and  suddenly  he 
would  burst  into  a  curt,  but  deafening  laugh. 

236 


II 

]My  mother  was  very  fastidious  about  her  ac- 
quaintances, but  she  received  Kharloff  with  par- 
ticular cordiahty,  and  overlooked  many  things  in 
him:  five  and  twentv  vears  before,  he  had  saved 
her  life,  by  holding  her  carriage  on  the  brink  of  a 
deep  abyss,  into  which  the  horses  had  already 
fallen.  The  traces  and  breech-straps  gave  way, 
but  even  then  INIartyn  Petrovitch  did  not  let  go 
of  the  wheel  which  he  had  seized  in  his  grasp — al- 
though the  blood  spurted  from  beneath  his  finger- 
nails. ]My  mother  even  arranged  his  marriage: 
she  gave  him  to  wife  an  orphan  girl  of  seventeen, 
who  had  been  reared  in  her  house:  he  was  over 
forty  at  the  time.  Martyn  Petrovitch's  wife  was 
weak  in  health, — it  was  said  that  he  had  carried 
her  into  his  house  on  his  palms, — and  she  did  not 
long  survive  the  wedding;  but  she  bore  him  two 
daughters.  Even  after  her  death,  my  mother 
continued  to  show  her  good-will  to  Martyn  Petro- 
vitch: she  got  the  eldest  daughter  into  one  of  the 
Government  }x)arding-schools,  then  she  found  her 
a  husband — and  already  had  her  eye  on  another 
for  the  second  dauglitcr.  Kharloff  was  an  excel- 
lent farmer,  his  little  estate  consisted  of  about 

237 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

three  hundred  desyatinas,'  and  he  had  added  to 
it  s(Hne^vllat ;  and  as  for  the  way  in  whieli  his  serfs 
obeyed  liim, — it  simply  is  useless  to  discuss  it! 
Owing  to  his  obesity,  Kharloff  hardly  ever  went 
on  foot :  he  was  too  heavy.  He  rode  about  every- 
where in  a  low  racing-drozhky,  and  drove  the 
horse  himself,  a  raw-boned  mare  thirty  years  old, 
with  the  scar  of  a  wound  on  her  shoulder:  that 
wound  she  had  received  in  the  battle  of  Borodino, 
as  the  mount  of  the  quartermaster  in  the  Cheva- 
lier Guards  regiment.  This  horse  constantly 
limped,  on  all  four  feet  simultaneously,  it  seemed : 
she  could  not  go  at  a  walk,  but  meandered  along 
at  a  jog-trot,  with  a  skip  and  a  jump;  she  ate 
mugwort  and  wormwood  from  the  grass  strips 
between  the  cultivated  fields,  a  thing  w^hich  I  have 
never  observed  any  other  horse  do.  I  remember 
that  I  always  w^ondered  how  that  half -alive  horse 
could  draw  about  such  a  frightful  burden.  I 
dare  not  repeat  how  many  puds  ^  our  neighbour 
w^eighed.  Behind  jMartyn  Petrovitch  in  the  rac- 
ing-gig his  swarthy  little  page,  Maxim,  took  his 
place.  Cuddling  his  whole  body  and  face  up 
against  his  master,  and  bracing  his  bare  feet 
against  the  hind  axle  of  the  drozhky,  he  seemed 
a  tiny  leaf,  or  a  worm,  which  was  leaning  against 
the  gigantic  carcass  that  towered  up  in  front  of 
him.    This  same  page,  once  a  week,  shaved  Mar- 

*  A  desyatina  is  2.70  acres. —Tbanslatob. 
2  A  pud  is  36  pounds.  — Translatoe. 

238 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

tyn  Petrovitch.  For  the  accomplishment  of  this 
operation,  he  stood  on  the  table,  so  they  said :  some 
jesters  asserted,  that  he  was  forced  to  run  around 
his  master's  chin.  KharlofF  was  not  fond  of  stay- 
ing  at  home  for  long  at  a  time,  and,  therefore,  he 
was  quite  frequently  to  be  seen  driving  about 
in  his  inevitable  equipage,^  with  the  reins  in 
one  hand  (the  other,  he  deftly,  with  elbow 
crooked  out,  propped  on  his  knee),  with  a  tiny, 
old  cap  of  military  shape  on  the  very  apex  of  his 
head.  He  gazed  alertly  about  him  with  his  little, 
bear-like  eves,  shouted  in  stentorian  tones  at  all 
the  peasants,  petty  burghers,  and  merchants 
whom  he  met:  he  launched  strong  epitliets  at  the 
priests,  whom  he  was  very  far  from  loving,  and 
one  day,  as  he  came  alongside  me,  (I  had  gone 
out  for  a  stroll  with  my  gun) ,  he  began  to  halloo 
so  vociferously  at  a  hare  which  was  lying  by  the 
roadside,  that  the  moaning  and  din  stuck  in  my 
ears  until  evening. 

^  The  racinjf-drozhky,  used  also  for  rough  work  in  the  country,  con- 
sists of  a  board,  with  or  without  a  cushion,  attached  without  springs 
to  four  small  wheels,  all  of  the  same  size.  The  driver  sits  astride 
the  board,  with  his  feet  braced  against  the  shafts. —Translator. 


239 


Ill 

JNIy  mother,  as  I  have  already  said,  was  wont  to 
give  JMartyn  Petrovitch  a  cordial  welcome;  she 
knew  what  profound  respect  he  cherished  for 
her.  '•'  She  's  a  gentlewoman!  a  lady!  one  of  our 
own  sort!  " — was  the  way  in  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  refer  to  her.  He  called  her  his  bene- 
factress, and  she  looked  upon  him  as  a  devoted 
giant,  who  would  not  have  hesitated  to  defend 
her  single-handed  against  a  whole  horde  of  peas- 
ants:— and,  although  not  even  the  possibility  of 
such  a  clash  was  apprehended,  still,  according  to 
my  mother's  views,  in  the  absence  of  a  husband 
(she  had  been  early  widowed),  such  a  defender 
as  JNIartyn  Petrovitch  was  not  to  be  despised. 
JMoreover,  he  was  an  upright  man,  he  fawned  on 
no  one,  he  did  not  borrow  money,  he  did  not 
drink  liquor — and  neither  was  he  stupid,  al- 
though he  had  received  no  education  whatever. 
My  mother  trusted  JNIartyn  Petrovitch.  When 
she  took  it  into  her  head  to  make  her  last  will  and 
testament,  she  summoned  him  as  a  witness,  and 
he  drove  home  for  the  express  purpose  of  get- 
ting the  circular,  iron  spectacles,  without  which  he 
was  unable  to  write;  and  with  these  spectacles 

240 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

on  his  nose,  he  barelv  contrived,  in  the  course  of 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  panting  and  puffing,  to  jot 
down  his  rank,  name,  patronymic,  and  surname, 
and,  withal,  he  made  his  letters  huge,  square,  with 
flourishes  and  tails;  and  having  completed  his  la- 
bour, he  announced  that  he  was  weary,  and  that 
writing  was,  for  him,  as  hard  work  as  catching 
fleas.  Yes,  my  mother  respected  him  ....  but  he 
was  not  allowed  any  further  than  the  dining-room 
in  oiir  house.  A  very  strong  odour  emanated  from 
him:  he  reeked  of  the  earth,  of  forest  thickets, 
of  marsh  mire.  "  A  regular  forest-demon!  "  my 
old  nurse  averred.  At  dinner,  a  special  table  was 
placed  in  the  corner  for  ]\Iartyn  Petrovitch — and 
he  was  not  offended  at  this — he  knew  that  it  was 
awkward  for  others  to  sit  beside  him — and  more- 
over, he  himself  could  eat  in  greater  comfort ;  and 
he  ate  as,  I  supjwse,  no  one  has  eaten  since  the 
days  of  Polyphemus.  By  way  of  precaution,  a 
pot  of  buckwheat  groats,  containing  about  six 
pounds,  was  always  provided  for  him  at  the  very 
beginning  of  the  dinner:  "  otherwise,  thou  wilt 
certainly  eat  me  out  of  house  and  home!" — my 
mother  used  to  say.  "  Exactly,  madam,  I  shall 
eat  you  out  of  house  and  home!  "  ^lartyn  Petro- 
vitch would  answer,  with  a  grin. 

My  motlier  loved  to  listen  to  his  arguments  on 
any  point  of  domestic  management ;  but  she  could 
not  endure  his  voice  very  long. 

"  ^Vcll,  good  heavens!" — she  would  exclaim: 

241 


A  KlXc;   LKAK   OF  THE  STEPPES 

— "  you  ou^lit  U)  get  cured  of  that,  I  think! 
you  lunc  completely  deafened  nie.  What  a 
trumpet!  " 

"  Xatiilya  Nikolaevna — Benefactress!" — Mar- 
tyn  Petrovitch  generally  replied: — "  I  have  no 
control  over  my  throat.  And  what  medicine 
could  I  take? — please  to  judge  for  yourself.  I 
had  better  hold  my  peace  for  a  bit." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  suppose  that  any 
medicine  could  have  penetrated  JNIartyn  Petro- 
vitch.   He  had  never  been  ill. 

He  could  not  narrate,  and  did  not  like  to  do 
so.  "  Asthma  is  caused  b}'  long  speeches,"  he  re- 
marked reprovingly.  Only  when  he  was  got 
upon  the  subject  of  the  war  of  1812,  (he  had 
served  in  the  militia,  and  had  received  a  bronze 
medal,  which  he  wore  with  the  ribbon  of  the  Order 
of  St.  Vladimir  on  festive  occasions),  when  he 
was  interrogated  about  the  French,  did  he  impart 
a  few  anecdotes,  although  he  kept  asserting,  at 
the  same  time,  that  no  genuine  Frenchmen  had 
come  to  Russia;  but  that,  impelled  by  hunger, 
marauders  had  made  an  incursion,  and  that  he  had 
administer<?d  a  thrashing  to  many  of  that  rabble. 


242 


IV 

Yet  this  invincible,  self-reliant  giant  had  his 
hours  of  melancholy  and  irresolution.  Without 
any  visible  cause,  he  would  suddenly  begin  to  suf- 
fer from  depression:  he  would  lock  himself  up 
alone  in  his  room  and  buzz — precisely  that,  buzz 
like  a  whole  swarm  of  bees:  or  he  would  summon 
his  page,  ]Maxim,  and  order  him  either  to  read 
aloud  from  the  only  book  which  had  strayed  into 
his  house,  an  odd  volume  of  Xovikoff  s  "  The 
Labourer  at  Rest," — or  to  sing.  And  JNIaxim, 
who,  by  a  strange  freak  of  fate,  could  read  by 
spelling  out,  would  set  to  work  with  the  usual  dis- 
location of  words,  and  transference  of  the  accent, 
to  shout  out  pln-ases,  in  the  nature  of  the  follow- 
ing: "  But  a  pas-sionate  hu-man  being  deduces 
from  that  emi)ty  place,  which  he  finds  in  crea- 
tures, utterly  conflicting  in-ferences.  Any  crea- 
ture se-par-iitely,  he  says,  has  not  the  power  of 
rcnder-ing  me  hap-py !  "  and  so  forth, ^  or  he 
would  strike  up,  in  the  shrillest  sort  of  a  little 
voice,  some  mournful  ditty,  of  which  nothing 
could  be  distinguished  except:  "  I  ....  i  ....  e 
....  i  ....  e  ....  i  ....  Aa  ....  ska!  .  .  .  O 
....  on  ...  .  f)n  ....  l)i  ....  i  ....  i  ....  i  ...  . 

^  "The  LalHMirer  at  Hcst,"  a  |)cri()dical  jmlilicaHon,  etc.     Moscow, 
17H.5,  Part  III.,  p.  2'.i,  line  1 1  from  tin;  top. 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

la!"  And  ]Martyn  Petrovitch  would  sway  his 
head,  to  and  fro,  and  allude  to  the  instability  of 
life,  to  the  fact  that  everytliing  will  turn  to  dust, 
will  witlier  like  unto  the  grass  of  the  field:  it  will 
pass  away — and  cease  to  exist!  In  some  manner, 
there  had  fallen  into  his  hands  a  picture  which  de- 
picted a  burning  taper,  on  which  the  winds  are 
blowing  from  all  four  points  of  the  compass,  with 
distended  cheeks;  underneath  was  the  inscrip- 
tion: "Such  is  human  life!"  This  picture 
pleased  him  greatly;  he  hung  it  up  in  his  private 
study; — but  in  ordinary,  non-mournful  periods 
he  was  accustomed  to  turn  it  with  its  face  to  the 
wall,  in  order  that  it  might  not  worry  him.  Khar- 
loiF,  that  colossus,  was  afraid  of  death !  Yet,  even, 
in  his  fits  of  melancholy,  he  rarely  resorted  to  re- 
ligion,  to  prayer,  for  aid :  he  placed  more  reliance 
on  his  own  wits  in  that  case  also.  He  was  not 
particularly  devout;  lie  was  not  often  seen  in 
church ;  to  tell  the  truth,  he  said  that  he  did  not  go 
there  because,  on  account  of  the  size  of  his  body, 
he  was  afraid  of  crushing  everybody  out.  The 
fit  usually  ended  in  Martyn  Petrovitch's  begin- 
ning to  whistle — and,  all  at  once,  in  a  thundering 
voice,  he  would  order  his  drozhky  to  be  harnessed 
up,  and  he  would  drive  off  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood,  waving  his  free  hand  with  consid- 
erable dash  above  the  visor  of  his  cap,  as  though 
desirous  of  saying,  "  I  don't  care  a  rap  about  any- 
thing now!"    He  was  a  Russian  man. 

244 


Very  strong  men,  like  JMartyn  Petrovitch,  are 
generally  of  a  phlegmatic  temperament;  he,  on 
the  contrary,  was  rather  easily  irritated.  The 
person  who,  in  particular,  drove  him  out  of  pa- 
tience was  the  brother  of  his  deceased  wife,  a 
certain  BytchkofF,  who  lived  in  our  house,  not 
precisely  in  the  quality  of  a  jester,  nor  yet  quite 
in  that  of  a  hanger-on ;  having  received  the  nick- 
name of  Souvenir  in  his  earliest  years,  every  one 
still  called  him  so,  even  the  servants  who,  it  is 
true,  addressed  him  as  Souvenir  Timofeitch. 
His  real  name  w^as  not  even  known  to  himself, 
apparently.  He  was  a  miserable  little  man,  de- 
spised by  every  one :  a  parasite,  in  short.  All  his  v 
teetli  were  lacking  on  one  side  of  his  mouth, 
hence  his  tiny,  wrinkled  face  appeared  to  be  dis- 
torted. He  was  forever  bustling  and  fidgeting  / 
about:  he  would  dro])  in  at  the  maids'  hall,  or  the 
estate  office,  to  see  the  priests  in  the  village,  or  the 
village-elder  in  his  cottage;  he  would  be  driven 
out  everywliere,  and  would  merely  shrug  his 
slioulders,  and  screw  u])  his  little  eyes, — and  emit 
a  pitiful,  thin  little  laugh,  like  the  sound  of  a  bot- 
tle being  rinsed.    It  always  seemed  to  me,  that  if 

245 


V 


A  KING  LEAK  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Souvenir  had  had  money,  he  would  have  turned 
out  the  worst  possihle  sort  of  a  man,  immoral, 
vicious,  even  cruel.  Poverty  had  "  tamed  "  him 
down  willy-nilly.  He  was  allowed  to  drink  liquor 
only  on  festive  occasions.  He  was  neatly 
clothed,  in  accordance  with  my  mother's  orders, 
as  he  played  piquet  or  boston  with  her  in  the  even- 
ings. Souvenir  kept  incessantly  reiterating: 
"  Here,  I,  permit  me,  I  will  immejutly,  imme- 
jutly."  "  But  w^hat  is  immejutly?  "  my  mother 
would  ask  him  with  vexation.  He  would  in- 
stantly fling  back  his  hands,  grow  timid,  and 
stammer:  "  What  you  please,  madam!  "  He  had 
no  occupations,  except  to  eavesdrop  at  doors,  talk 
scandal,  and,  chief  of  all,  "nag"  or  "tease";  and 
he  "  nagged  "  as  though  he  had  a  right  to  do  so, 
as  though  he  were  avenging  himself  for  some- 
thing or  other.  He  called  ^lartyn  Petrovitch 
"  brother,"  and  bored  him  to  death.  "  Why  did 
you  kill  my  sister  Margarita  Timofeevna?  " — he 
besieged  him,  capering  about  in  front  of  him  and 
snickering.  One  day,  Martyn  Petrovitch  was 
sitting  in  the  billiard-room,  a  cool  apartment,  in 
which  no  one  had  ever  beheld  a  fly, — and  which 
our  neighbour,  who  detested  heat  and  sunlight, 
was  greatly  addicted  to  for  that  reason.  Pie 
was  sittinff  between  the  wall  and  the  billiard- 
table.  Souvenir  slipped  hastily  past  his  "paunch," 
jeered  at  him,  and  played  antics Mar- 
tyn Petrovitch  wanted  to  brush  him  aside,  and 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

thrust  out  both  hands  in  front  of  him.  Luckily 
for  Souvenir,  he  contrived  to  get  out  of  the  way — 
his  dear  brother's  hands  landed  on  the  supports  of 
the  billiard-table,- — and  tlie  heavy  wooden  table- 
top  flew  clear  off  its  six  screws.  .  .  What  a  pan- 
cake Souvenir  would  have  been  converted  into, 
if  he  had  fallen  under  those  mighty  hands! 


247 


VI 

I  HAD  long  been  curious  to  see  how  Martyn  Pe- 
trovitch  had  arranged  his  dwelhng,  what  sort  of 
a  liouse  he  had.  One  day,  I  offered  to  escort 
him  on  horseback  as  far  as  Es'kovo  (that  was  the 
name  of  his  estate) . — "  Really  now!  Thou  wish- 
est  to  inspect  my  domain," — said  Martyn  Pe- 
trovitch. — "All  right!  I'll  show  thee  the  gar- 
den, and  the  house,  and  the  threshing-floor — and 
everything.  I  have  lots  of  every  sort  of  prop- 
erty! " — We  set  out.  The  distance  from  our  vil- 
lage to  Es'kovo  was  reckoned  at  not  more  than 
three  versts.^ — "Here  it  is,  my  domain!" — 
suddenly  thundered  ^lartyn  Petrovitch,  en- 
deavouring to  turn  his  immovable  head,  and 
pointing  to  right  and  left. — "  It 's  all  mine!  " — 
Kharloff's  manor-house  lay  on  the  crest  of  a 
sloping  hillock;  at  the  foot,  clinging  close  to  a 
small  pond,  were  several  miserable  peasants'  cots. 
At  the  pond,  by  the  dam,  an  old  peasant  woman 
in  a  plaid  petticoat  of  homespun  was  pounding 
clothes  twisted  into  a  roll,  with  a  beater. 

"Aksinya!" — roared   Martyn  Petrovitch,   so 
that  the  daws  rose  in  a  flock  from  a  neighbouring 

1  A  verst  is  two  thirds  of  a  mile.  — Thaxsi-ator. 

24S 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

field  of  oats.  ...  "  Art  washing  thy  husband's 
trousers?  " 

The  woman  wheeled  round  instantly,  and  made 
a  reverence  to  the  girdle. 

"  Yes,  dear  little  father," — her  weak  voice 
made  itself  heard. 

"  Just  so!  See  there," — went  on  ^Nlart^'-n  Pe- 
trovitch,  making  his  way  at  a  trot  along  a  half- 
rotten  wattled  fence, — "this  is  my  hemp-patch; 
and  that  one,  yonder,  belongs  to  the  peasants; 
thou  perceivest  the  difference!  And  here  is  my 
garden ;  I  set  out  the  apple-trees  myself,  and  the 
willow-trees  also.  There  did  not  use  to  be  any 
trees  here.    So  look  at  that — and  learn  a  lesson!  " 

We  turned  into  the  courtyard,  enclosed  in  a 
hedge;  directly  opposite  the  gate  stood  a  very, 
very  aged  little  wing,  with  a  straw  thatch,  and  a 
tiny  portico  on  pillars ;  on  one  side  stood  another, 
somewhat  newer,  and  with  a  tiny  partial  sec- 
ond storey — but  also  on  "  chicken's  legs." — 
"  Here  's  another  lesson  for  thee," — said  Khar- 
lofF: — "thou  seest,  in  what  sort  of  little  manor- 
houses  our  forefathers  lived;  but  this  is  the  sort 
of  residence  I  have  built  for  myself  now." — 
The  residence  resembled  a  house  of  cards.  Five 
or  six  dogs,  each  more  shaggy  and  hideous  than 
the  other,  greeted  us  with  howls. — "  Sheep- 
dogs!"— remarked  Martyn  Petnnitch. — "Gen- 
uine Crimean  sheep-dogs!  Get  out,  you  damned 
beasts!    I  '11  take  and  string  you  all  up,  one  after 

241^ 


A  KING  LEAK  OF  THE  STEPPES 

the  otlicr,  tlic  first  you  know!"  On  the  little 
porch  of  tlic  new  wing  a  youno-  man  in  a  long, 
peasant  (hist-eoat  of  crash  made  his  appearance, 
the  hushand  of  ^lartvn  Petrovitch's  eldest  dau<>li- 
ter.  Skipping  lightly  to  the  drozhky,  he  respect- 
fully supported  his  father-in-law  hy  the  elbow,  as 
he  alighted — and  even  made  a  motion  with  one 
hand,  as  though  he  were  about  to  grasp  tlie  gi- 
gantic foot,  which  the  latter,  bending  his  body 
forward,  threw  over  the  seat  with  a  flourish; — 
then  he  aided  me  to  alight  from  my  horse. 

"  Anna!  "  —  shouted  KharlofF:  —  "  Natalya 
Nikoliievna's  little  son  has  been  so  good  as  to 
visit  us ;  we  must  entertain  him.  And  where  's 
Evliimpiushka? "  (The  eldest  daughter  was 
named  Anna — the  yoimger,  Evlampiya.) 

"  She  's  not  at  home;  she  has  gone  to  the  fields 
for  corn-flowers," — replied  Anna,  making  her 
appearance  at  a  tiny  w^indow  by  the  door. 

"  Are  there  any  curds?  "  asked  KharlofF. 
Yes. 

"  And  is  there  cream?  " 
Ihere  is. 

"  Well,  fetch  them  to  the  table,  and,  meanwhile, 
I  '11  show  him  my  study. — Please  come  this  way — 
this  way,"  lie  added,  turning  to  me,  and  beckon- 
ing me  on  with  his  forefinger.  In  his  own 
house,  he  did  not  address  me  as  "  thou  "  ;  the 
master  of  the  house  must  be  polite.  He  led  me 
along  a  corridor. — "  Here  's  where  I  live," — he 

250 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

said,  stepping  sideways  across  the  threshold  of 
a  broad  doorway, — "  and  here's  my  study.  Please 
enter." 

This  study  proved  to  be  a  large  room,  unplas- 
tered  and  almost  empty ;  along  the  walls,  on  nails 
driven  in  at  irregular  intervals,  hung  two  Kazak 
riding-whips,  a  rusty  three-cornered  hat,  a  single- 
barrelled  gun,  a  sword,  a  strange  sort  of  horse- 
collar  with  metal  discs,  and  the  picture  repre- 
senting the  candle  attacked  by  the  winds ;  in  one 
corner  stood  a  wooden  couch,  covered  with  a  mot- 
ley-hued  rug.  Hundreds  of  flies  were  buzzing 
thickly  close  to  the  ceiling ;  but  the  room  was  cool ; 
only,  it  smelled  particularly  strong  of  the  pecu- 
liar forest  odour  which  accompanied  JNIartyn 
Petrovitch  everywhere. 

"Well,  isn't  my  study  nice?" — KharlofF 
asked  me. 

44    'XT  '  " 

Very  nice. 

"  See,  I  have  a  horse-collar  from  Holland 
hanging  up  yonder," — went  on  KharlofF,  again 
relapsing  into  "thou." — "A  splendid  collar!  I 
bought  it  of  a  Jew.    Just  take  a  good  look  at  it !  " 

"  It 's  a  good  collar." 

"  The  most  practical  sort!  Just  smell  of  it.  .  .  . 
What  dost  thou  think  of  that  for  leather?  " — I 
smelled  the  collar;  there  was  an  odour  of  rancid 
oil,  nothing  more. 

"  Come,  sit  down — yonder,  on  that  little  chair, 
be  my  guest,"  said  KharlofF,  and  dropped  down 

251 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

liinisclf  on  tlie  couch,  and,  as  though  he  were 
dozing,  closed  his  eyes,  and  even  snored.  I  stared 
at  liini  in  silence,  and  could  not  recover  from  my 
amazement:  he  was  a  mountain — and  that's  all 
there  was  to  he  said!    Suddenly  he  started  up. 

"  Anna!  " — he  shouted,  and  therewith  his  huge 
paunch  rose  and  fell,  like  a  wave  of  the  sea: — 
"what  art  thou  ahout?  Hurry  up!  Didst  not 
thou  hear  me?  " 

"  Everything  is  ready,  dear  father;  pray 
come," — resounded  his  daughter's  voice. 

I  inwardly  marvelled  at  the  celerity  with 
which  iNIartyn  Petrovitch's  orders  had  been  ex- 
ecuted, and  followed  him  to  the  dining-room, 
where,  on  the  table,  spread  with  a  red  table-cloth 
with  white  patterns,  the  luncheon  stood  ready: 
curds,  cream,  wheat  bread,  even  powdered  sugar 
with  ginger.  While  I  was  vanquishing  the  curds, 
INIartyn  Petrovitch,  after  affectionately  growl- 
ing:— "  Eat,  my  little  friend,  eat,  my  dear  little 
dove,  despise  not  our  rustic  viands," — seated  him- 
self once  more  in  the  corner,  and  once  more 
seemed  to  fall  into  a  doze!  In  front  of  me,  mo- 
tionless, with  downcast  eyes,  stood  Anna  JVIar- 
tynovna,  and  through  the  window  I  could  see  her 
husband  walking  my  cob  up  and  down  in  the 
yard,  wiping  off  the  chain  of  the  snaffle  with  his 
own  hands. 


252 


VII 

^Iy  mother  did  not  like  Kharloff' s  oldest  daugh- 
ter; she  called  her  a  haughty  chit.  Anna  ISIar- 
tynovna  almost  never  came  to  call  on  us,  and  in 
my  mother's  presence  she  bore  herself  staidly 
and  coldly,  although  she  was  indebted  to  her  for 
having  received  her  education  in  the  boarding- 
school  and  got  married,  and  on  the  wedding  day 
had  received  from  her  a  thousand  rubles,  and  a 
yellow  Turkish  shawl, — somewhat  worn,  it  is 
true.  She  was  a  woman  of  medium  stature,  thin, 
very  vivacious  and  quick  its  her  movements,  with 
tliick,  reddish-blonde  hair,  a  handsome,  dark-com- 
plexioned face,  and  narrow,  pale-blue  eyes;  she 
had  a  thin,  straight  nose,  her  lips  were  thin  also, 
and  her  chin  was  "  spike-shaped."  Any  one,  to 
look  at  her,  would  certainly  have  thought:  "  Well, 
you  're  a  clever — and  an  ill-tempered  woman !  " 
And  yet,  there  was  something  attractive  about 
her;  even  the  dark  moles,  scattered  like  grains  of 
buckwlieat  over  her  face,  were  becoming  to  her, 
and  augmented  the  feeling  which  slie  evoked. 
Thnisting  her  hands  under  her  kerchief,  she 
stealthily  insi)ecte(l  me  from  a])ove  (I  was  sitting, 
she  was  stan(Hng)  ;  a  mahcious  smile  liovered  over 

25^ 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  TIIK  STEPPES 

her  lips,  and  over  her  cheeks,  uiuler  the  shadow  of 
her  lony:  eyelashes. 

"  Okh,  thou  spoiled  little  gentleman !  "  that 
smile  seemed  to  be  saying.  Every  time  she  drew 
a  breath,  her  nostrils  dilated  slightly — that,  also, 
was  rather  strange ;  but,  nevertheless,  it  seemed  to 
me,  that  if  Anna  JNIartynovna  would  only  fall 
in  love  with  me,  or  merely  wish  to  kiss  me  with  her 
thin,  hard  lips, — I  would  leap  up  to  the  ceiling 
with  rapture.  I  knew  that  she  was  very  stern  and 
exacting,  that  the  peasant  matrons  and  maids 
feared  her  like  fire, — but  what  of  that!  Anna 
INIartynovna  mysteriously  excited  my  imagina- 
tion. However,  I  was  only  fifteen  years  old  at 
that  time, — and  at  that  age! 

Again  INIartyn  Petrovitch  started  up. — 
"Anna!" — he    shouted: — "thou    hadst    better 

jingle  the  piano Young  gentlemen  like 

that." 

I  glanced  round:  a  pitiful  similitude  of  a 
piano  stood  in  the  room. 

"  Very  well,  father," — replied  Anna  Mar- 
tynovna. — "  Only,  what  shall  I  play  to  him?  It 
will  not  interest  him." 

"  Then  why  wert  thou  taught  in  the  j^msion?  "^ 
'     "  I  Ve  forgotten  it  all  completely  ....  and 
the  strings  are  broken." 

Anna  ^lartynovna's  little  voice  was  very  pleas- 
ant, resonant  and  plaintive,  as  it  were  .  .  .  .  . 
such  a  voice  as  birds  of  prey  have. 

254 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

"  Well," — said  Martyn  Petrovitch,  and  be- 
came thoughtful. — "  Well," — he  began  again, — 
*'  would  n't  you  like  to  inspect  the  threshing-floor, 
to  satisfy  your  interest?  Volodka  will  show  you 
the  way. — Hey,  Volodka!" — he  shouted  to  his 
son-in-law,  who  was  still  walking  my  horse  up 
and  down  the  yard,—"  here,  escort  this  gentleman 
to  the  threshing-floor,  .  .  .  and,  in  general,  .... 
show  him  my  farm.  But  I  must  have  a  nap! 
Ta-ta !    Good  luck  to  vou !  " 

He  left  the  room,  and  I  followed  him.  Anna 
]Martvnovna  immediately  began  to  clear  the 
table,  briskly  and  with  a  vexed  sort  of  manner. 
On  the  threshold,  I  turned  and  bowed  to  her:  but 
she  appeared  not  to  notice  my  salute,  only  she 
smiled  again,  and  more  maliciously  than  before. 

I  took  my  horse  from  Kharl6ff"s  son-in-law, 
and  led  it  by  the  bridle.  He  and  I  went  to  the 
threshing-floor, — but  as  we  found  nothing  par- 
ticularly curious  about  it,  and  as  he  could  not  pre- 
suppose any  special  love  for  farming  in  me,  a 
young  lad,  we  returned  through  the  garden  to  the 
highway. 


2bf> 


VIII 

I  WAS  well  acquainted  with  Kharloff's  son-in- 
law:  his  name  was  Sletkin,  Vladimir  Vasilievitch ; 
he  was  an  orphan,  the  son  of  a  petty  official,  my 
mother's  attorney,  and  she  had  reared  him.  At 
first  he  had  been  placed  in  the  county  school,  then 
he  had  entered  the  "  office  of  patrimonial  estates," 
then  he  had  been  inscribed  in  the  service,  in 
the  department  of  government  warehouses,  and, 
finally,  he  had  been  married  to  the  daughter  of 
JNIartvn  Petrovitch.  ]\Iv  mother  called  him  the 
little  Jew,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  with  his  crisp 
curls,  his  black,  eternally  moist  eyes,  like  stewed 
prunes,  his  hawk-like  nose  and  wide,  red  mouth, 
he  did  recall  the  Hebrew  type ;  only,  his  skin  was 
white,  and,  altogether,  he  was  a  very  good-look- 
ing fellow.  He  was  of  an  obliging  disposition,  if 
only  his  own  personal  profit  were  not  concerned. 
If  that  were  the  case,  he  immediately  became 
frantic  with  greed,  he  even  went  as  far  as  tears: 
he  was  ready  to  beg  all  day  long  for  the  sake  of 
a  rag,  to  recall  a  promise  once  given  a  hundred 
times,  waxing  indignant  and  shrieking  shrilly  if 
it  were  not  immediately  fulfilled.  He  loved  to 
lounge  across  the  fields  with  his  gun ;  and  when  he 

250 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

succeeded  in  bagging  a  hare  or  a  duck,  he  put  his 
booty  into  his  hunting-pouch  with  a  pecuhar  feel- 
ing, saying  the  while:  "Well,  now  frolic  away, 
thou  shalt  not  escape !    Xow  thou  shalt  serve  me!  "     \ 

"  That 's  a  nice  little  nag  of  yours," — he  said, 
in  his  lisping  voice,  as  he  helped  me  to  get  into 
the  saddle: — "I  wish  I  had  just  such  a  horse! 
But  where  am  I  to  get  it!  1  have  no  such  luck. 
You  might  ask  your  mamma  ....  remind 
her " 

"  But  has  she  made  you  a  promise?  " 

"  If  she  only  had!  Xo;  but  I  thought,  that  in 
her  benignity " 

"  You  had  better  apply  to  jNIartyn  Petrovitch." 

"To  ^Nlartyn  Petrovitch!"  repeated  Sletkin, 
in  a  slow  drawl.  "  In  his  eves,  I  am  of  about  as 
much  consequence  as  that  insignificant  page 
Maxim.  He  keeps  us  under  his  thumb,  and  we 
never  have  even  a  peep  at  a  reward  from  him  for 
all  our  labours." 

"Reallv?" 

"Yes,  God  is  mv  witness.  When  he  says: 
'My  word  is  sacred!' — well,  it's  just  like  cut- 
ting you  off  with  an  axe.  You  may  implore  and 
implore, — it  has  no  result.  And  there  is  Anna 
^Slartynovna,  my  wife,  slie  has  no  such  advantage 
in  his  eves  as  Evhimpiya  ]\Iartvnovna. 

"  Akh,  good  heavens!"  he  suddenly  inter- 
rupted himself,  and  wrung  liis  liands  in  despair. 
*'  Look:  what  is  that?    Some  scoundrel  has  cut  a 

257 


A  KIXC   T.EAK  OF  THE  STEPPES 

whole  hali'-ciolith  '  of  oats — of  our  oats.  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  A  pretty  world  this  I 
Thieves!  thieves!  You  see,  people  actually  speak 
the  truth  when  they  say,  there 's  no  trusting 
Es'kovo,  Bes'kovo,  Erino,  Byelino! "  (These 
were  the  names  of  the  four  neighhouring  vil- 
lages. )  "  Akh,  akh !  Just  think  of  it !  Here  's  a 
loss  of  a  ruble  and  a  lialf — or,  perhaps,  even  of 
two  rubles!  " 

Something  akin  to  sobs  was  audible  in  Sletkin's 
voice.  I  touched  my  horse's  side,  and  rode  away 
from  him. 

Sletkin's  exclamations  had  not  yet  ceased  to 
reacli  my  ear  when,  suddenly,  at  a  turn  in  the 
road,  I  came  upon  that  same  second  daughter  of 
Kharloff,  Evlampiya,  who,  according  to  Anna 
INIartynovna's  statement,  had  gone  to  the  fields 
for  corn-flowers.  A  thick  wreath  of  those  flowers 
encircled  her  head.  We  exchanged  a  silent  greet- 
ing. Evlampiya,  also,  was  very  pretty,  quite  as 
good-looking  as  her  sister,  but  in  another  style. 
She  was  tall  and  stout;  everything  about  her 
was  large :  her  head,  and  her  feet,  and  her  hands, 
and  her  snow-white  teeth,  and  especially  her 
eyes,  which  were  prominent,  languishing,  dark- 
blue,  like  glass  beads;  everything  about  her  was 
monumental,  even  (not  for  nothing  was  she  the 
daughter  of  Martyn  Petrovitch),  but  handsome 
Evidently,  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her 

1  An  "eighth"  Is  equal  to  11.55  pecks.  — Tea nslatoh. 

258 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

thick,  flaxen  hair,  and  had  wound  it  thrice  round 
her  head.  Her  mouth  was  charming,  fresh  as  a 
rose,  of  a  deep-crimson  colour,  and  when  she 
spoke,  the  centre  of  her  upper  hp  was  lifted  in  a 
verj^  pretty  way.  But  in  the  gaze  of  her  huge 
eyes  there  was  something  wild  and  almost  harsh. 
"  A  free  lance,  Kazak  blood," — that  was  the  way 
INIartyn  Petrovitch  expressed  himself  about  her. 
I  was  afraid  of  her.  .  .  .  That  imposing  beauty 
reminded  me  of  her  father. 

I  rode  on  a  little  further,  and  heard  her  begin 
to  sing,  in  an  even,  powerful,  rather  sharp,  regu- 
lar peasant  voice:  then  she  suddenly  ceased.  I 
glanced  round,  and  from  the  summit  of  the  hill 
I  descried  her,  standing  by  the  side  of  Khar- 
lofF's  son-in-law,  in  front  of  the  eighth  of  rye 
wliich  had  been  reaped.  Tlie  man  was  flourishing 
his  hands  and  pointing,  but  she  did  not  move. 
The  sun  illumined  her  tall  figure,  and  the  wreath 
of  corn-flowers  on  her  head  gleamed  blue. 


259 


IX 

I  THINK  I  have  already  told  you,  gentle'.nen,  that 
my  mother  had  provided  a  husband  for  this  sec- 
ond daughter  of  KharlofF  also.  He  was  one  of 
the  poorest  of  our  neighbours,  a  retired  army 
ISIajor,  Gavrilo  Feduliteh  Zhitkoff,  a  man  no 
longer  young,  and,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  not 
devoid  of  licentiousness,  and,  as  though  it  were  a 
recommendation:  "beaten  and  broken."  He 
barely  knew  how  to  read  and  write,  was  stupid, 
but  cherished  a  secret  hope  of  obtaining  the  posi- 
tion of  manager  to  my  mother,  for  he  felt  himself 
to  be  possessed  of  "  executive  "  ability.  "  As  for 
the  rest,  sir,  knocking  out  the  peasants'  teeth — I 
understand  that  to  perfection," — he  was  wont  to 
say,  almost  gnashing  his  own  teeth: — "  because  I 
got  used  to  it," — he  explained, — "  in  my  former 
vocation,  you  know."  Had  ZhitkofF  been  less 
stupid,  he  would  have  understood,  that  the  post 
of  manager  to  my  mother  was  precisely  the  one 
which  he  had  no  chance  whatever  of  obtaining, 
since  to  that  end  it  would  be  necessary  to  super- 
sede our  actual  manager,  a  certain  Kvitzmsky,  a 
Pole  of  strong  and  active  character,  in  whom  my 
mother  had  entire  confidence.     ZhitkofF  had  a 

200 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

long,  horse  face,  all  overgrown  with  dusty-blond 
hair — even  his  cheeks  up  to  his  eyes  were  covered ; 
even  in  the  most  severe  cold  weather,  it  was  be- 
dewed with  copious  perspiration,  like  dewdrops. 
At  the  sight  of  my  mother,  he  immediately  drew 
himself  up  in  military  stjde,  his  head  began  to 
tremble  with  zeal,  his  huge  hands  lightly  tapped 
his  hips,  and  his  whole  figure  seemed  to  be  crying 
aloud:  "  Command  me!  ....  and  I  will  fly 
headlong!  "  ]My  mother  was  under  no  illusions 
as  to  his  cajiacity,  which,  nevertheless,  did  not  pre- 
vent her  making  eff'orts  to  marry  him  to  Ev- 
lampiya. 

"  Only,  wilt  thou  be  able  to  get  along  with  her. 
my  father?  "  she  asked  him  one  day. 

Zhitkoff  indulged  in  a  self-satisfied  smile. 

"  Goodness  me,  Xatalva  Xikolaevna!  I  have 
kept  a  whole  company  in  order,  they  toed  the 
mark,  and  what 's  this,  ma'am?  An  insignificant 
affair,  I  spit  upon  it." 

"  A  company  of  soldiers  is  one  thing,  my  good 
man,  and  a  well-born  young  girl,  a  wife,  is  quite 
another,"  remarked  my  mother,  with  displeasure. 

"  Good  heavens,  ma'am!  Natalya  Niko- 
laevna!"  cried  Zhitkoff  again.  "I  can  under- 
stand all  tliat  very  well.  In  short:  a  young  lady 
is  a  tender  creature!  " 

"  Well!  " — my  mother  decided  at  last, — "  Ev- 
liimpiya  will  not  let  herself  be  affronted." 


2G1 


X 

One  day — this  took  place  in  the  month  of  June, 
and  evening  was  drawing  on — a  footman  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  ^lartyn  Petrovitch.  ^ly 
mother  was  astonished:  We  had  not  seen  him  for 
more  than  a  week,  but  he  had  never  called  on  us 
so  late. 

"  Something  has  happened!  "  she  exclaimed  in 
an  undertone.  Martyn  Petrovitch's  face,  when 
he  presented  himself  in  the  room,  and  immedi- 
ately dropped  into  a  chair  beside  the  door,  wore 
such  an  unusual  expression,  it  was  so  pensive  and 
even  pale,  that  my  mother  involuntarily  repeated 
her  exclamation  aloud.  Martyn  Petrovitch  fixed 
his  little  eyes  upon  her,  remained  silent,  sighed 
heavily,  again  relapsed  into  silence,  and  an- 
nounced, at  last,  that  he  had  come  about  a  matter 
of  business  .  .  .  which  .  .  .  was  of  a  nature, 
that  in  consequence 

Having  muttered  these  incoherent  words,  he 
suddenly  rose  and  left  the  room. 

My  mother  rang  the  bell,  ordered  the  lackey 
who  entered  to  bring  ^Martyn  Petrovitch  back 
immediately,  but  the  latter  had  already  succeeded 
in  mounting  his  drozhky  and  driving  off. 

On  the  following  morning,  my  mother,  who 

262 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

had  been  equally  amazed  and  alarmed  by  Martyn 
Petrovitch's  strange  behaviour,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  was  on  the  point  of  sending  a 
messenger  for  him,  when  he  himself  again  ap- 
peared before  her.  This  time,  he  seemed  to  be 
more  composed. 

"  Tell  me,  batiushka,^  tell  me," — exclaimed  my 
mother,  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  him, — 
"  what  has  happened  to  you?  I  really  thought 
yesterday :  '  O  Lord ! '  I  thought, — '  has  n't  our 
old  neighbour  gone  out  of  his  mind? '  " 

"  I  have  not  gone  crazy,  madam,"  rej^lied  ]Mar- 
tyn  Petrovitch: — "  I  'm  not  that  sort  of  a  man. 
But  I  must  take  counsel  with  you." 

"What  about?" 

"  Only,  I  'm  in  doubt,  whether  the  same  will  be 
agreeable  to  j^ou " 

"  Speak,  speak,  father,  and  as  simply  as  possi- 
ble. Don't  agitate  me!  why  this  the  same?  Speak 
simply.  Have  you  got  another  fit  of  melan- 
choly? " 

KharlofF  contracted  his  brows.  "  Xo,  not  of 
melancholy — I  have  that  at  the  time  of  the  new 
moon;  but  permit  me  to  ask  you,  madam,  what 
you  think  about  death?  " 

My  mother  was  alarmed.    "  About  what?  " 

"  About  death.  Can  death  spare  any  one 
whomsoever  in  this  world?" 

^  The  penuine  Russian  form  of  address,  literally,  "dear  little 

fatluT. "—!":!  A  Nsi.ATou. 

2^)3 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

"  Wluit  other  (lueer  thing  is  tliis,  that  thou  hast 
taken  into  thy  head,  my  father;'  Tliou,  for  in- 
stance, although  thou  wert  horn  a  giant — there 
will  he  an  end  to  thee  also." 

"There  will!  okh,  there  will!"  chimed  in 
Khavloff,  and  cast  down  his  eyes.     "  There  has 

hai)pened  to  me  a  vision  in  my  sleep "  V  ^ 

said  slowly,  at  last.  .  . 

"  What  art  thou  saying?  " — my  mother  inter- 
rupted him. 

"  A  vision  in  my  sleep,"  he  repeated.  "  I  'm  a 
seer  of  visions,  you  know." 

"Thou?" 

"Yes.  I!  But  didn't  you  know  that?"— 
KharloiF  heaved  a  sigh.  "  Well,  then  ....  I 
lay  down  a  bit,  madam,  more  than  a  week  ago, 
just  before  the  beginning  of  the  Peter  fast!  *  I 
lay  dow^n  after  dinner,  to  rest  a  bit, — well, — and 
I  fell  asleep !  and  I  saw  something,  as-  though  it 
were  a  black  colt,  come  running  into  the  room, 
and  up  to  me.  And  that  colt  began  to  prance 
about,  and  show  its  teeth.  The  colt  was  as  black 
as  a  beetle." 

Kharloff  ceased  speaking. 

"  Well?  " — said  my  mother. 
"  And  that  same  colt  suddenly  w^heels  round, 
kicks  me  on  the  left  elbow,  right  on  the  very 

'  The  fast  which  precedes  the  day  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  June 
29  (N.  S.  July  13):  it  varies  in  length,  according  to  the  date  of 
Easter,  —Tk  A  xsi.ATOR. 

264 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

crazy -bone!  ....  I  awoke!  and  lo  and  behold, 
that  arm  would  n't  work,  neither  would  the  left 
leg.  Well,  thinks  I,  't  is  paralysis ;  but  I  kneaded 
it  well,  and  it  got  into  action  again:  only,  the 
creeps  kept  coursing  through  my  limbs  for  a  long 
time,  and  are  still  doing  so.  Whenever  I  open 
my  palm,  they  just  begin  to  run.up  and  down." 

"  Why,  ]\Iartyn  Petrovitch,  thou  must  have 
been  lying  on  thine  arm,  I  'm  sure." 

"  Xo,  madam,  please  not  to  say  that!    'T  is  a 

forewarning  to  me of  my  death,  that  is 

to  say." 

"Well,  there  he  goes  again!" — began  my 
mother. 

" 'T  is  a  forewarning!  As  much  as  to  say: 
*  Prepare  thyself,  man ! '  And  therefore,  madam, 
this  is  what  I  have  to  announce  to  you,  without  the 
slightest  delay.  Xot  wishing," — said  Kharloff, 
with  a  sudden  shout, — "  that  that  same  death, 
should  catch  me,  the  servant  of  God,  unawares, 
this  is  what  I  have  decided  upon  in  my  own  mind: 
that  I  must  divide  up  my  property  now,  during 
my  lifetime,  between  my  two  daughters,  Anna 
and  Evlampiya,  as  the  Lord  God  shall  put  in  my 
soul  to  do."  Martyn  Petrovitch  paused,  groaned, 
and  added: — "  Without  the  least  delay." 

"  Well,  wliat  tlien?  Tliat  is  a  good  act," — re- 
marked my  mother: — "  only,  I  think  that  thou 
art  making  liaste  witliout  a  cause." 

"  And,  as  I  desire,  in  this  matter," — went  on 

2().> 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Kliarloff,  elevating  his  voice  to  a  still  louder 
pitch, — "  to  observe  the  proper  order  and  legality, 
1  most  respectfully  rc(iuest  your  young  son, 
Dmitry  Semyonovitch,  and  impose  it  upon  my 
relative  Bytchkoff  as  a  direct  duty — to  be  present 
at  the  consummation  of  the  formal  deed,  and  in- 
duction into  possession  of  my  two  daughters,. 
Anna,  married,  and  Evlampiya,  spinster;  which 
is  to  be  put  in  effect  the  day  after  to-morrow,  at 
twelve  o'clock,  noon,  at  my  own  estate  of  Es'kovo, 
also  known  as  Koziulkino,  assisted  by  the  con- 
stituted authorities  and  officials,  who  have  already 
been  invited." 

3Iartyn  Petrovitch  barely  managed  to  finish 
this  si^eech,  which  he  had,  obviously,  committed 
to  memory,  and  which  was  broken  by  numerous 
gasps.  ...  It  seemed  as  though  there  were  a 
lack  of  air  in  his  chest :  his  face,  which  had  grown 
pallid,  crimsoned  once  more,  and  he  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  it  several  times. 

"  And  hast  thou  had  the  deed  of  partition 
drawn  up  already?  "  asked  my  mother.  "  When 
didst  thou  find  the  time  for  that?  " 

"  I   did okh!    Without   a  bite   or   a 

sup " 

"  Didst  thou  write  it  thyself?  " 
"  Volodka  ....  okh!  helped  me." 
"  And  hast  thou  presented  thy  petition?  " 
"  Yes,  and  the  court  has  confirmed  it,  and  the 
district  judge  has  received  his  instructions,  and 

26G 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

a  special  commission  of  the  county  court  .... 
okli!  .  .  .  has  been  designated  to  be  present." 

]My  mother  laughed.  "  I  perceive,  ^Nlartyn 
Petrovitch,  that  thou  hast  already  taken  all  the 
proper  measures, — and  how  promptly!  That 
means,  that  thou  hast  not  spared  money?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not,  madam." 

"  Indeed  thou  hast  not !  But  thou  sayest  that 
thou  desirest  to  take  counsel  with  me.  Very  well, 
]Mitenka  may  go,  and  I  will  let  Souvenir  go  with 
him,  and  I  will  tell  Kvitzinsky.  .  .  But  hast  thou 
not  invited  Gavrilo  Fedulitch?  "  .  ^ 

"  Gavrilo  Fedulitch  ....  :Mr.  ZliitkofF  .  .  .  . 
has  also  been  ....  notified  ....  by  me.  In 
liis  quality  of  betrothed  it  is  proper  that  he  should 
be." 

It  was  evident  that  ]Martyn  Petrovitch  had  ex- 
hausted his  entire  store  of  eloquence.  JNIoreover, 
it  had  always  seemed  to  me,  that,  somehow  or 
other,  he  was  not  quite  well-disposed  toward  the 
bridegroom  ^^•hom  my  mother  had  picked  out; 
perhaps  he  had  expected  a  more  advantageous 
match  for  his  Evlampiya. 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  made  a  bow  and 
a  scrape. — "Thanks  for  your  consent!" 

"  Where  art  thou  going?  " — asked  my  motlier. 
"  Sit  down;  I  will  order  refreshments  to  be 
serv^ed." 

"  ]Mucli  obhged,"  replied  Kharloff .  "  But  I 
cannot Okh!  I  must  go  home." 

267 


A  KINC;  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

He  retreated,  and  was  on  the  point  of  sliding 
sideways  tlirougli  the  door,  according  to  his 
wont.  .  . 

"  Stop,  stop," — went  on  my  mother, — "  is  it 
possible  that  thou  art  surrendering  thy  whole 
j)r()perty,  without  reserve,  to  thy  daughters?" 

"  Of  course,  without  reserve." 

"  Well,  and  thou  thyself  ....  where  wilt 
thou  live?  " 

KharlofF  even  flourished  his  hands  at  this. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  asking  where?  In  my 
own  house,  as  I  have  lived  hitherto  ....  so  I 
shall  henceforth.    What  change  can  there  be?  " 

"  And  hast  thou  so  much  confidence  in  thy 
daughters  and  in  thy  son-in-law?  " 

"Is  it  about  Volodka  that  you  are  pleased  to 
speak?  About  that  rag?  Why,  I  can  shove  him 
about  anywhere,  hither  and  yon.  .  .  What  power 
has  he?  And  they,  my  daughters,  that  is  to  say, 
will    furnish   me    with    food,    drink,    shoes    and 

clothing  until  I  die Good  gracious !  that 's 

their  first  obligation!  But  I  shall  not  long  offend 
their  eyes.  Death  is  not  far  off,  behind  the  moun- 
tains— but  close,  behind  my  shoulders." 

"  Death  is  in  the  power  of  the  Lord  God," — re- 
marked my  mother, — "  but  that  is  their  duty,  it  is 
true.  Only,  thou  must  pardon  me,  Martyn  Pe- 
trovitch;  thy  eldest  daughter,  Anna,  is  well 
known  to  be  a  haughty  chit, — well, — and  thy  sec- 
ond has  the  look  of  a  wolf " 

268 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

"  Xatalya  Xikolaevna!" — broke  in  Kharloff, 
"  what  are  you  saying? — that  they  ....  ]My 
daughters  ....  That  I  .  .  .  .  Ai'e  they  going 
to  renounce  obedience?  ^A^'hv,  thev  never  would 
dream  of  such  a  thing!  ....  Offer  resistance? 
To  whom?  To  their  parent? — Dare  they?  And 
would  it  take  long  to  curse  them?  They  have 
passed  their  life  in  trembling,  and  in  submis- 
sion,— and  all  of  a  sudden! O  Lord!" 

Kharloff  cleared  his  throat:  he  had  grown 
hoarse. 

"  Well,  very  good,  very  good," — my  mother 
hastened  to  soothe  him: — "  Only,  I  do  not  under- 
stand, nevertheless,  why  thou  hast  taken  it  into 
thy  head  to  share  the  property  between  them 
now.  In  any  case,  it  would  have  come  to  them 
after  thy  death.  I  suppose  thy  fit  of  melancholy 
is  the  cause  of  all  this." 

"Eh,  matushka,"^  returned  Kharloff,  not  with- 
out irritation, — "  you  're  just  wound  up  to  say 
melancholy !  Possibly,  a  higher  power  is  acting  in 
this  matter,  but  vou  call  it  melancholy!  And  so, 
madam,  I  liave  taken  it  into  my  head,  that  I  want 
to  settle  this  personally,  while  I  am  in  the  land 
of  the  living, — who  is  to  possess  what, — and  let 
the  one  whom  I  sliall  reward  with  anything  hold 
possession  of  the  same,  and  feel  gratitude,  and 
fulfil  it,  and  regard  that  which  her  father  and 

^  Literally,  "dear  little  mother:"  the  f?enuine  Russian  address 
for  women  of  all  ranks. — Tkansi-atou. 

209 


A  KING  LExVR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

benefactor   lias    imposed   upon    her   as   a   great 
nierev " 

» 

Again  Kharloff's  voice  broke. 

"  Come,  enongh,  my  father,  enough  of  that," — 
my  mother  interrupted  him;  "or  the  black  colt 
will  straightway  make  his  appearance." 

"  Okh,  Natiilya  Nikolaevna,  don't  talk  to  me 
about  him:" — groaned  KharlofF.  "It  was  my 
death  that  came  for  me.  I  beg  your  forgiveness. 
And  I  shall  have  the  honour  to  expect  you,  my 
little  gentleman,  the  day  after  to-morrow!  " 

]Martyn  PetnSvitch  left  the  room;  my  mother 
looked  after  him,  and  shook  her  head  signifi- 
cantly. "  No  good  will  come  of  this," — she  whis- 
pered;—"no  good  will  come  of  it.  Plast  thou 
noticed,"  she  said,  turning  to  me: — "while  he 
talked,  he  kept  screwing  up  his  eyes,  as  though  to 
avoid  the  sun ;  thou  must  know  that  is  a  bad  sign. 
When  such  a  man  feels  heavy  at  heart,  a  calamity 
is  threatening  him.  (tO  the  day  after  to-morrow 
with  Vikenty  Osipoviteh  and  Souvenir." 


270 


XI 

Ox  the  appointed  day,  our  big,  four-seated, 
family  carriage,  drawn  by  six  dark  bay  horses, 
with  the  chief  "  royal  coachman,"  fat,  grey- 
bearded  Alexyeitch,  on  the  box,  rolled  smoothly 
uj)  to  the  porch  of  our  house.  The  importance 
of  the  deed  which  KharlofF  was  about  to  under- 
take, the  solemnity  with  which  he  had  invited  us, 
liad  had  their  effect  upon  my  mother.  She  her- 
self had  given  orders  to  have  precisely  this  extra- 
ordinary equipage  harnessed  up,  and  had  com- 
manded Souvenir  and  me  to  array  ourselves  in 
festive  attire:  evidently,  she  wished  to  show  re- 
spect for  her  "  protege."  As  for  Kvitzinsky, — he 
always  ^^'ent  about  in  a  dress-suit  and  a  white 
neckcloth.  Souvenir  chattered  like  a  magpie  the 
Vv'holc  way,  giggled,  discussed  the  question  as  to 
whether  his  dear  brother  would  offer  him  any- 
thing, and  then  and  there  dubbed  him  an  idol  and 
a  spectre.  At  last,  Kvitzinsky,  a  morose,  bilious 
man,  could  endure  it  no  longer.  "  What  pos- 
sesses you," — he  said,  with  his  clear-cut,  Polish 
accent, — "  to  jabber  such  nonsense  constantly? 
And  is  n't  it  possible  to  sit  still,  without  any  of 
that   balderdash, — '  which   is  of  no  use  to  any- 

271 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

IkkIv  '  ?  (his  favourite  expression).  "  Well,  im- 
inc  jutly," — muttered  Souvenir,  with  displeasure, 
and  riveted  his  squint-eyes  on  the  window.  A 
(juarter  of  an  hour  had  not  elapsed,  the  smoothly- 
trotting  horses  had  hardly  begun  to  perspire 
under  tlie  slender  straps  of  the  new  harness,  when 
KharlofF's  manor-house  came  in  sight.  Through 
the  gates,  which  stood  open,  our  carriage  rolled 
up  to  the  courtyard;  the  tiny  jockey,  whose  legs 
hardly  reached  half-way  down  the  horse's  body, 
boimded  for  the  last  time  in  his  soft  saddle  with 
a  youthful  yell,  old  Alexyeitch's  elbows  simulta- 
neously spread  out  and  rose,  a  faint  "  tprrrrr  " 
(whoa!)  w^as  audible,  and  we  came  to  a  halt.  The 
dogs  did  not  greet  us  with  barks,  the  little  brats 
of  the  house-serfs,  in  long  shirts  slightly  open 
over  their  big  bellies,  had  also  disappeared 
somew^here.  KharlofF's  son-in-law  was  waiting 
for  us  on  the  threshold.  I  remember,  that  I  was 
particularly  struck  with  the  small  birch-trees 
which  were  stuck  up  on  each  side  of  the  porch, 
as  on  Trinity  day.'  "  The  Solemnity  of  Solem- 
nities! "^  sang  Souvenir  through  his  nose,  as  he 
alighted  first  from  the  carriage.  And,  in  fact, 
solemnity  was  discernible  in  everything.  Khar- 
loff's  son-in-law  wore  a  plush  neckcloth,  with  a 

^  It  is  customary  to  decorate  churches  and  houses  with  birch-trees 
on  that  Sunday,  which  corresponds,  in  a  way,  to  Whit-Sunday:  the 
following  day,  "the  Day  of  the  S[)irit,"  being  the  actual  Pentecost 
festival,  though  the  celebration  is  on  "Trinity  day," — Translator. 

2  A  quotation  from  the  Easter  hymns. — Tuanslator. 

272 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

satin  bow,  and  a  remarkably  tight-fitting  dress- 
suit  ;  and  the  hair  of  ^Nlaxim,  who  was  popping  up 
from  behind  his  back,  was  drenched  with  home- 
made beer  to  such  a  degree,  that  it  was  even  drip- 
ping with  it.  We  entered  the  drawing-room,  and 
beheld  ]Martyn  Petrovitch,  towering  up  immova- 
bly,— precisely  that,  towering  up, — in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  I  do  not  know  what  were  the  feel- 
ings of  Souvenir  and  Kvitzinsky  at  the  sight  of 
his  colossal  figure,  but  I  experienced  something 
akin  to  reverence.  jMartyn  Petrovitch  had 
garbed  himself  in  a  grey  jacket,  with  a  black 
standing  collar,  which  must  have  been  his  militia 
uniform  in  the  year  '12;  the  bronze  medal  was 
visible  on  his  breast,  the  sword  hung  by  his  side; 
he  had  laid  his  left  hand  on  the  hilt,  his  right  hand 
rested  on  a  table  covered  with  red  clotli.  Two 
sheets  of  paj^er  covered  with  writing  lay  on  that 
same  table.  KharlofF  did  not  move,  did  not  even 
pant;  and  what  dignity  was  expressed  in  his  mien, 
what  confidence  in  himself,  in  his  unbounded 
and  indubitable  power!  He  barely  greeted  us 
with  a  nod,  and  saying  hoarsely:  "  Pray  be 
seated!"  he  pointed  the  index-finger  of  his  left 
hand  in  the  direction  of  a  row  of  cliairs.  Against 
the  right  wall  of  the  drawing-room  stood  both  of 
KharlofF's  daugliters,  in  their  Sunday  attire: 
Anna  in  a  changeable  gown  of  green  and  lilac, 
with  a  girdle  of  yellow  silk;  Evlainpiya  in  a  pink 
gown,  with  flame-coloured  ribbons.    Beside  them 

273 


xV  KING  LExVR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

stood  Zhitkuir,  in  a  now  unilorni,  with  his  custo- 
mary expression  of  stupid,  greedy  expectation  in 
his  eyes,  and  with  an  unusually  large  amount  of 
perspiration  on  his  hairy  face.  Against  the  left 
^vall  of  the  drawing-room  sat  the  priest,  in  a 
threadbare  snuff-coloured  cassock — an  old  man, 
Avith  stiff,  dark-brown  hair.  This  hair,  his  dull 
eyes,  and  his  large,  shrivelled  hands,  which 
seemed  to  be  a  burden  to  himself,  and  lay,  like 
heaps,  on  his  knees,  and  his  oiled  boots,  which 
peeped  forth  from  beneath  his  cassock, — all 
bore  witness  to  his  toilsome,  cheerless  life:  his 
parish  was  very  poor.  By  his  side  sat  the  chief 
of  the  rural  police,  a  fat,  pale,  dirty  little  gentle- 
man, with  plump,  short  hands  and  feet,  black 
eyes,  black,  clipped  moustache,  and  a  constant, 
pitiful  though  cheery  smile  on  his  face:  he  had 
the  reputation  of  being  a  great  bribe-taker,  and 
even  tyrant,  as  the  expression  ran  in  those  days: 
but  not  only  the  landed  proprietors,  but  the  peas- 
ants also  had  got  used  to  him,  and  were  fond  of 
him.  Pie  was  gazing  about  in  a  very  free-and- 
easy  and  somewhat  mocking  manner:  it  was 
plain,  that  this  whole  "  procedure  "  amused  him. 
In  reality,  he  was  interested  only  in  the  impend- 
ing luncheon  with  vodka.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
pettifogging  lawyer  who  sat  beside  him,  a  gaunt 
man  with  a  long  face,  and  narrow  side-whiskers 
running  from  his  ear  to  his  nose,  as  they  were  worn 
under  Alexander  I,  took  a  soul-felt  interest  in 

27i 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

Martyn  Petrovitcli's  arrangements,  and  never  re- 
moved from  him  his  large,  serious  eyes ;  extremely 
strained  attention  and  sympathy  made  him  keep 
constantly  moving  and  twisting  his  lips,  but  he 
did  not  open  them.  Souvenir  took  a  seat  by  him, 
and  entered  into  a  whispered  conversation  with 
him,  having  preliminarily  informed  me,  that  he 
was  the  leading  Freemason  of  the  district.  A 
.special  commission  of  the  county  court  consists, 
as  every  one  knows,  of  the  chief  of  rural  police,  a 
la"v\yer  and  the  commissary  of  police;  but  either 
there  was  no  commissary,  or  else  he  kept  himself 
in  the  background  to  such  a  degree  that  I  did  not 
observe  him;  however,  he  w^ent  in  our  district  by 
the  nickname  of  "  the  non-existent,"  just  as  there 
are  some  called  "  the  non-rememberers."  I  sat 
down  next  to  Souvenir,  Kvitzinsky  next  to  me. 
On  the  face  of  the  practical  Pole  there  was  de- 
picted manifest  vexation  at  the  "  useless  to  an}^- 

body  "  trip,  at  the  vain  loss  of  time "  Just 

like  a  fine  lady!  the  freaks  of  these  Russian  gen- 
try! "  he  seemed  to  be  wliispering  to  himself  .... 
"  These  Russians  are  altogether  too  much  for 
me!" 


•275 


XII 

When  we  were  all  seated,  JNIartyn  Petrovitch  ele- 
vated his  shoulders,  grunted,  looked  at  us  one 
after  the  other  with  his  little  bear-like  eyes,  and, 
sighing-  noisily,  began  thus: 

"  Dear  sirs!  I  have  invited  you  hither  for  the 
following  cause.  I  am  getting  old,  dear  sirs,  in- 
firmities are  beginning  to  overcome  me.  ...  I 
have  already  had  a  forewarning,  the  hour  of 
death,  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  is  approach- 
ing. ...  Is  n't  that  right,  batiushka,"  ^  he  said, 
addressing  the  priest. 

The  jDriest  was  startled.  "  Yes,  yes,"  he  mum- 
bled, wagging  his  little  chin. 

"  And  therefore," — f)^^'^^^^  Marty n  Petro- 
vitch, suddenly  raising  his  voice, — "  not  wishing 
that  that  same  death  should  overtake  me  una- 
wares, I  have  settled  in  my  own  mind  .  .  .  ." 
Martyn  Petrovitch  repeated,  word  for  word,  the 
phrases  which  he  had  uttered  at  my  mother's 
house,  two  days  before.  "  In  virtue  of  this  my  de- 
cision," he  vociferated  still  more  loudly,  "  this 
deed  "  (he  smote  the  documents  which  were  lying 
on  the  table)   "  has  been  drawn  up  by  me,  and 

^  Batiushka,  the  general  address  to  a  man  in  any  station  of  life,  is 
specifically  the  title  of  the  clergy.— Thanslatoh. 

270 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

the  powers  that  be  have  been  invited  hither.  As 
to  what  my  said  will  consists  of,  the  points  follow. 
I  have  finished  my  reign,  let  there  be  an  end  of 
me! 

]Martyn  Petrovitch  placed  his  round  iron  spec- 
tacles on  his  nose,  took  from  the  table  one  of  the 
sheets  of  writing,  and  began: 

"  A  deed  of  partition  of  the  property  of 
retired  bavonet-vimker^  and  hereditarv  noble, 
^lartyn  Kharloff,  drawn  up  by  himself  in  full 
and  sound  mind,  and  according  to  his  own  good 
judgment,  and  wherein  are  accurately  specified 
what  usufructs  are  placed  at  the  disposal  of  his 
two  daughters,  Anna  and  Evlampiya — make  a 
reverence!"  (they  made  a  reverence) — "are 
placed  at  their  disposal,  and  in  what  manner  the 
house-serfs  and  the  other  property  and  the  poul- 
try are  to  be  divided  between  the  said  daughters. 
And  thereto  I  set  mv  hand  in  confirmation!  " 

"  He  wants  to  read  that  document  of  his  " — 
whispered  the  chief  of  police,  with  his  perpetual 
smile,  to  Kvitzinsky, — "  because  of  the  beauty  of 
its  style,  but  the  legal  document  is  drawn  up  in 
proper  form,  without  all  those  flourislies." 

Souvenir  began  to  giggle 

"  In  consonance  with  my  will!  " — put  in  Khar- 
loff; the  chief  of  police's  comment  had  not  es- 
caped liis  attention. 

1  An  ol(l-fasliioiic-(l  rank  in  llii;  artillery,  between  sergeant 
and  lieulc-nant.— TuA.ssi.ATOH. 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

"  It  does  agree  in  all  points," — replied  the  lat- 
ter, hastily  and  eheerily; — "only,  the  form,  you 
know,  ^lartyn  Petroviteh,  cannot  possibly  be 
dispensed  with.  And  superfluous  details  are 
eliminated.  For  the  court  cannot  possibly  enter 
into  particulars  as  to  piebald  cows  and  Turkish 
drakes." 

"  Come  hither,  thou!  " — yelled  KharlofF  to  his 
son-in-law,  who  had  followed  us  into  the  room, 
and  had  stopped  near  the  door,  with  an  obse- 
quious air.  He  immediately  ran  to  his  father-in- 
law. 

"Here,  take,  read!  It's  difficult  for  me! 
Only,  look  out,  don't  gabble!  Read  so  that  all 
the  gentlemen  jjresent  may  penetrate  the  mean- 
ing." 

Sletkin  took  the  sheet  of  paper  with  both 
hands,  and  began  to  read  the  deed  of  partition 
tremblingly,  but  intelligibly,  with  taste  and  feel- 
ing. Therein  was  defined,  with  the  greatest  ac- 
curacy, precisely  w'hat  was  allotted  to  Anna,  and 
what  to  Evlampiya,  and  in  what  manner  they 
were  to  share.  Kharloff ,  from  time  to  time,  broke 
in  on  the  reading  with  the  words: — "  Hearest 
thou,  Anna,  that  is  for  thee,  for  thy  zeal!  " — or: 
*'  I  present  that  to  thee,  Evlampiushka!  " — and 
both  sisters  bowed,  Anna  with  her  whole  body 
to  the  waist,  Evlampiya  with  her  head  only. 
Kharloff  surveyed  them  with  sombre  pomposity. 
"  The  manor-house  " — the  new  wing,  he  assigned 

278 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

to  Evlampiya,  "  as  being  the  j'-oungest  daughter, 
according  to  custom  from  time  immemorial"; 
the  voice  of  the  reader  cracked  and  quivered  as 
he  articulated  these  words  so  unpleasant  for  him- 
self: but  ZhitkofF  licked  his  lips.  Evlampiya  cast 
a  sidelong  glance  at  him :  had  I  been  in  ZhitkoiFs 
place,  I  should  not  have  liked  tliat  glance. 
]Martyn  Petrovitch  reserved  to  himself  the  right 
to  live  in  the  chambers  at  present  occupied  by 
him,  and  stipulated  for  himself,  under  the  appel- 
lation of  "  privy  purse,"  full  support  "  with  nat- 
ural provisions  "  and  ten  rubles  in  cash  per  month 
for  shoes  and  clothing.  Kharloff  insisted  on 
reading  the  concluding  clause  in  the  deed  of  par- 
tition himself. 

"  And  this  my  parental  will," — it  ran, — "  my 
daughters  are  to  hold  sacred  and  inviolate,  as 
though  it  were  my  last  will  and  testament;  for, 
after  God,  I  am  their  father  and  their  head,  and 
am  not  bound  to  render  account  to  any  one, 
neither  have  I  rendered  it;  and  if  they  shall  ful- 
fil my  will,  then  shall  my  parental  blessing  be 
with  them,  but  if  they  shall  not  fulfil  mv  will, 
which  God  forbid,  then  shall  my  parental  and  ir- 
revocable curse  overtake  them,  now  and  unto 
ages  of  ages,  amen!"  7\liarl(W  elevated  the 
sheet  of  paper  liigh  above  his  licad.  Anna  in- 
stantly dro])pcd  briskly  on  licr  knees,'  and 
thiim])cd  the  floor  with  her  brow;  her  lH]s])and 
followed  her  with  a  similar  somersault.     "  Well, 

271) 


A  KIXC;  l.ExUi  OF  THE   STEPPES 

and  what  art  thou  about?" — Kharloff  said  to 
Evhimpiya.  She  flushed  crimson  all  over,  and 
also  made  a  reverence  to  the  earth :  Zhitkoif  bent 
liis  whole  body  forward. 

"Sign!" — exclaimed  Kharloff,  pointing  his 
fln<yer  at  the  end  of  the  deed.  "Here:  '  I  thank 
and  accept,  Anna!  1  tliank  and  accept,  Evlam- 
pi  ya  I 

Both  daughters  rose  to  tlieir  feet,  and  signed, 
one  after  the  other.  Sletkin  rose  also,  and  made 
a  motion  to  take  the  pen,  but  Kharloff  brushed 
him  aside,  thrusting  his  middle  finger  in  his  neck- 
cloth so  that  he  staggered  back.  The  silence 
lasted  for  about  a  minute.  All  at  once,  Martyn 
Petrovitch  gave  a  sort  of  gulp,  and  muttering, 
"  Well,  everything  is  yours  now!  "  moved  aside. 
His  daughters  and  son-in-law  exchanged  glances, 
went  to  him,  and  began  to  kiss  his  arm,  above 
the  elbow.     They  could  not  reach  his  shoulder.^ 

^  An  ancient  Russian  custom,  from  inferiors  to  their 
superiors .— Tha  xsLATOK. 


280 


XIII 

The  chief  of  police  read  the  real,  formal  act,  the 
deed  of  gift,  drawn  up  by  ^Nlartyn  Petrovitch. 
Then  he  and  the  lawyer  went  out  on  the  porch, 
and  announced  to  the  neighbours,  who  had  as- 
sembled about  the  gate, — namely,  the  local  in- 
habitants, summoned  by  the  police  as  witnesses, 
the  serfs  on  the  Kharloff  estate,  and  several 
house-serfs, — the  transaction  M'hich  had  been  com- 
pleted. Then  began  the  induction  into  posses- 
sion of  the  two  new  landed  proprietresses,  who 
also  made  their  appearance  on  the  porch,  and  at 
whom  the  chief  of  police  pointed  with  his  hand, 
when,  slightly  frowning  and  for  the  moment  im- 
parting to  his  care-free  countenance  a  menacing 
aspect,  he  exhorted  the  peasants  to  "  obedience." 
He  might  have  dispensed  with  this  exhorta- 
tion: I  do  not  believe  that  more  peaceable  physi- 
ognomies than  those  of  the  KharlofF  peasants 
exist  in  nature.  Clad  in  miserable  cloth  long 
coats  and  tattered  sheepskin  short  coats,  but  very 
tightly  girt,  as  is  always  proper  on  solemn  occa- 
sions, they  stood  motionless  as  men  of  stone,  and 
whenever  the  chief  of  police  emitted  interjections, 
in  the  nature  of:    "  Listen,  you  fiends!  under- 

281 


A  KIXG  T.EAR  OF  TITE   STEPPES 

stand,  you  devils!"  they  made  an  abrupt  ineli- 
nation,  all  in  unison,  as  though  at  the  word  of 
command;  eacli  one  of  these  "  tiends  and  devils  " 
held  his  cap  tightly  clutched  with  both  hands, 
and  never  took  his  eyes  from  the  window,  through 
which  was  visible  the  figure  of  Martyn  Petro- 
vitch.  And  the  inhabitants  of  the  locality  offi- 
cially bidden  as  witnesses  were  not  much  less 
daunted. 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  impediments  whatso- 
ever,"— shouted  the  chief  at  them, — "  to  the 
induction  into  possession  of  these  only  and  legiti- 
mate heiresses  and  daughters  of  Martyn  Petro- 
vitch  KharlofF?" 

All  the  official  witnesses  immediately  seemed 
to  shrivel  up. 

"  Do  you  know  any,  you  devils? " — shouted 
the  chief  of  police  again. 

"  We  know  of  none,  Your  Well-born," — man- 
fully replied  one  small,  pock-marked  old  fellow, 
a  retired  soldier,  with  a  close-clipped  beard  and 
moustache. 

"  Well,  now,  Eremyeitch  is  a  bold  fellow!  " — 
the  witnesses  said  of  him,  as  they  went  their  sev- 
eral ways. 

Notwithstanding  the  chief's  request,  Kharloff 
would  not  go  out  on  the  porch  with  his  daughters. 
"  INIy  subjects  will  submit  to  my  will  without 
that!  " — he  replied.  A  sort  of  depression  had  de- 
scended upon  him  after  the  consummation  of  the 

282 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

deed.     His  face  again  had  become  pallid.     This 
new,  unprecedented  expression  of  dejection  so 
ill  suited  the  expansive  and  kindly  features  of 
Martvn   Petrovitch,    that    I    decidedly   did   not 
know  what  to  make  of  it.     Could  it  be  that  a  fit 
of  melancholy   was   coming  on? — the   peasants, 
evidently,  on  their  side,  were  puzzled  also.    And, 
in  fact:  "  The  master  is  as  lively  as  ever — yonder 
he  stands,  and  what  a  ^Master!    ^lartyn  Petro- 
vitch !  And  all  of  a  sudden,  he  is  not  going  to  own 
them.  .  .  .  xVstounding!  "    I  know  not  whether 
Kharloff  divined  the  thoughts  which  were  fer- 
menting in  the  heads  of  his  "  subjects,"  whether 
he  wanted  to  bluster  for  the  last  time,  but  sud- 
denly he  opened  the  hinged  pane,  put  his  head 
in  the  opening,  and  shouted  in  a  voice  of  thunder: 
"  Obey! "     Then  he  slammed  to  the  pane.     The 
})ewilderment  of  the  peasants  was  not  dispelled 
by  this,  of  course,  and  neither  was  it  diminished. 
They  became  more  petrified  than  ever,  and  even, 
as  it  were,  ceased   to  look.     The  group  of  house- 
serfs    (among   their   number   were   two   buxom 
girls,  in  short  calico  gowns,  with  such  calves  as 
are,  probably,  to  be  seen  nowhere  else  except  in 
^Michael   Angclo's  "  East  Judgment,"   and  one 
other,  very  aged,  lialf -blind  old  man,  who  was 
even  covered  with  rime,  so  anticpie  was  he,  in  a 
rough  frieze  great-coat, — according  to  report,  he 
liad  been  a  "  horn-player  "  under  Potemkin,'  — 

2  Pronounced  I'ntynmkiv. — TnANSi.ATOH. 

2K3 


A  KING  LEAK   OF  THE   STEPPES 

Kluirl<)ff  had  retained  the  page  oMaxim  for  his 
own  service), — this  group  evinced  more  anima- 
tion than  the  peasants:  at  all  events,  it  shifted 
from  foot  to  foot.  The  new  proprietresses  hore 
themselves  with  much  dignity,  especially  Anna. 
Compressing  her  thin  lips,  she  kept  her  eyes  per- 
sistently downcast  ....  her  stern  face  did  not 
augur  much  good.  Neither  did  Evlampiya  raise 
her  eyes;  only  once  she  turned  round,  and,  as 
though  with  surprise,  with  a  glance  measured 
from  head  to  foot  her  betrothed,  ZhitkoiF,  who 
had  considered  it  necessary  that  he  should  follow 
Sletkin  out,  and  show  himself  on  the  porch. 
"  By  what  right  art  thou  here?  "  those  beautiful, 
prominent  eyes  seemed  to  say.  Sletkin  had  un- 
dergone a  greater  change  than  any  of  the  rest. 
A  hurried  energy  had  made  its  appearance  in  his 
whole  being,  as  though  ravenous  appetite  had 
permeated  him ;  the  movements  of  his  head,  of  his 
feet,  had  remained  as  obsequious  as  ever ;  but  how 
gailj'^  did  he  rub  his  hands,  how  eagerly  did  he 
twitch  his  elbows!  As  much  as  to  say:  "  At  last, 
i  I  have  reached  my  goal!  " 

Having  accomplished  the  "  procedure  "  of  in- 
stalling in  possession,  the  chief  of  police,  whose 
mouth  was  fairly  watering  with  the  near  ap- 
proach of  luncheon,  rubbed  his  hands  in  that 
peculiar  manner  which  usually  precedes  the 
"  plunging  into  one's  self  of  the  first  glass  of 
liquor  "  ;  but  it  appeared,  that  INIartyn  Petro- 

284 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

vitch  wished  to  have  a  service  of  prayer  with 
blessing  of  water  celebrated  first.  The  priest 
donned  an  old  chasuble,  which  was  almost  fall- 
ing to  pieces:  a  barely-alive  chanter  emerged 
from  the  kitchen,  with  difficulty  blowing  alight 
the  incense  in  an  old  brass  censer.  The  prayer- 
service  began.  Kharloif  sighed  incessantly;  he 
could  not  make  reverences  to  the  ground,  owing 
to  his  obesity,  but  crossing  himself  with  his  right 
hand,  and  bowing  his  head,  he  pointed  at  the 
floor  with  the  finger  of  his  left  hand.  .  Sletkin 
was  fairly  beaming,  and  even  shed  tears;  Zhit- 
koff ,  in  a  well-bred  wav,  militarv  fashion,  crossed 
himself  by  barely  twitching  his  fingers  between 
the  third  and  fourth  buttons  of  his  uniform; 
Kvitzinsky,  being  a  Roman  Catholic,  remained 
in  the  adjoining  room;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
lawyer  prayed  so  fervently,  sighed  so  sympa- 
theticallv  in  imitation  of  jMartvn  Petrovitch,  and 
whisjjered  and  moved  his  lips  so  violently,  roll- 
ing his  eyes  heavenward  the  while,  that  as  I 
watched  him  I  was  much  affected,  and  began  to 
pray  also.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  prayer-ser- 
vice and  blessing  of  the  water,  when  all  present, 
even  Potemkin's  blind  "  Iiornist,"  even  Kvitzin- 
sky, wet  their  eyes  with  the  holy  water,  Anna 
and  Evliimpiya  once  more,  at  the  command  of 
Martyn  Petrovitch,  returned  thanks  to  him  with 
a  ground-reverence:  and  then,  at  last,  the  mo- 
ment for  breakfast  arrived.     There  were  a  great 

28o 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

many  viands,  and  all  were  very  savoury;  we  all 
over-ate  ourselves  dreadfully.  The  inevitable 
bottle  of  Don  wine  made  its  appearance.  The 
chief  of  police,  in  his  quality  of  a  man  who  was 
more  familiar  than  all  the  rest  of  us  with  the 
customs  of  society, — well,  and  also  as  a  represen- 
tative of  the  ruling  powers, — was  the  first  to  pro- 
pose a  toast  to  the  health  of  "  the  beautiful  pro- 
prietresses! "  Then  he  proposed  that  we  should 
drink  also  to  the  health  of  the  most  highly  re- 
spected and  most  magnanimous  Martyn  Petro- 
vitch.  At  the  words,  *'  most  magnanimous," 
Sletkin  squealed  aloud,  and  rushed  to  kiss  his 

benefactor "  Come,   all  right,   all  right, 

there  's  no  necessity  for  that," — muttered  Khar- 
loff ,  thrusting  him  aside  with  his  elbow,  as  though 

vexed But  at  this  point  a  not  entirely 

pleasant  episode,  as  the  saying  is,  took  place. 


286 


XIV 

To  wit:  Souvenir,  who  had  been  drinking  unin- 
terruptedly ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  break- 
fast, suddenly  rose  from  his  chair,  as  crimson  as 
a  beet,  and  pointing  his  finger  at  ISIartyn  Petro- 
vitch,  burst  out  with  his  quavering,  pitiful  laugh. 

"  ^lagnanimous!  iNIagnanimous!  "  he  shrilled, 
"  well,  let  us  just  see  whether  this  magnanimity 
will  suit  his  taste,  when  he,  the  servant  of  God, 
is  turned  out,  barebacked,  ....  and  into  the 
snow! " 

"What  nonsense  art  thou  chattering?  fool  I  " 
articulated  KharlofF,  scornfully. 

"  Fool!  fool!  "—repeated  Souvenir.  "  The 
Most  High  God  alone  knows  which  of  us  two  is 
the  real  fool.  See  here,  brother!  you  killed  my 
sister,  your  spouse,  and,  to  make  it  even,  you 
have  now  wiped  yourself  out  ....  ha-ha-ha!" 

"  How  dare  you  insidt  our  respected  benefac- 
tor? " — Sletkin  flew  to  his  defence,  and  wrench- 
in^r  free  his  shoulder,  which  Martyn  Petrovitch 
liad  grasped,  he  rushed  at  Souvenir.  "  Don't  you 
know,  that  if  om*  benefactor  wishes  it,  we  can  can- 
cel tliat  deed  this  very  minute?  "... 

"  Nevertheless,  you  will  turn  him  out,  stark- 

28*^ 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

naked — into  the  snow  ..."  interjected  Souve- 
nir, darting  behind  Kvitzinsky. 

"  Hold  thy  tongue!  " — thundered  KharlofF. — 
"  I  '11  give  thee  such  a  slap,  that  there  will  be  no- 
thing left  but  a  wet  spot  where  thou  hast  been. 
And  do  thou  hold  thy  tongue,  also,  pup!" — he 
addressed  Sletkin; — "don't  thrust  thyself  in 
where  thou  art  not  asked!  If  I,  INIartvn  Petro- 
vitch  Kharloff,  have  made  up  my  mind  to  draw 
up  the  said  deed,  then  who  can  cancel  it?  who 
can  oppose  my  will?  Why,  there  is  no  power  on 
earth " 

"  Marty n  Petrovitch !  "—suddenly  remarked 
the  lawyer,  in  a  somnolent  bass  voice;  he,  also, 
had  been  drinking  a  great  deal,  but  the  only  effect 
it  had  on  him  was  to  augment  his  pomposity. 
"  Well,  and  what  if  the  gentleman-proprietor 
has  been  pleased  to  speak  the  truth?  You  have 
done  a  great  deed ;  well,  and  God  forbid,  that,  as 
a  matter  of  fact  ....  instead  of  the  gratitude 
which  is  due,  some  affront  should  be  the  out- 
come." 

I  cast  a  stealthy  glance  at  Martyn  Petrovitch's 
two  daughters.  Anna  was  fairly  boring  her  eyes 
into  the  speaker,  and,  positively,  I  had  never  yet 
beheld  her  handsome  face  more  evil  and  snaky, 
and  more  beautiful  even  in  its  malice!  Evlam- 
piya  turned  away,  and  folded  her  arms;  a  scorn- 
ful smile  made  her  full,  rosy  lips  curl  more  than 
ever. 

288 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

Khar] off  rose  from  his  chair,  opened  his  mouth, 

but  evidently  his  tongue  refused  to  move 

He  suddenlv  smote  the  table  with  his  fist,  so  that 
everything  in  the  room  danced  and  clattered. 

"Dear  father,"  said  Anna  hastily;  "they  do 
not  know  us,  and  therefore  have  that  opinion 
of  us;  but  please  do  not  do  yourself  an  injury. 
There  is  no  necessity  for  your  being  angry;  why, 
your  dear  little  face  is  positively  distorted." 

Kharloff  glanced  at  Evlampiya;  she  did  not 
move,  although  Zhitkoff,  who  sat  beside  her, 
nudged  her  in  the  side. 

"  I  thank  thee,  ni}^  daughter  Anna," — said 
Kharloff,  in  a  dull  voice; — "  thou  art  my  clever 
girl;  I  trust  thee,  and  thy  husband  also."  Again 
Sletkin  squealed;  Zhitkoff  ])rotruded  his  chest, 
and  stamped  his  foot  lightly;  but  Kharloff  did 
not  notice  his  effort.  "  That  blockhead,"  he  went 
on,  indicating  Souvenir  with  his  chin, — "  is  glad 
to  tease  me;  but  you,  my  dear  sir," — and  he 
turned  to  the  lawyer, — "have  no  right  to  judge  of 
]Martyn  Kharloff:  you  know  nothing  about  him 
yet.  And  you  are  an  official  man,  but  your  words 
are  absurd.  However,  the  matter  is  settled,  there 
will  be  no  change  in  my  decision.  .  .  Well,  and 
good  luck  to  me!  I  shall  go  away.  I  am  no 
longer  the  host  here,  but  a  guest.  Anna,  manage 
affairs  as  thou  wilt;  but  I'm  going  off  to  my 
studv.     I  've  bad  enough!" 

Martvn    I'etrovitcli    wlieeled    round    with    liis 

281) 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

back  to  us,  ami  without  adding  another  word, 
slowlv  left  the  room. 

Tlie  sudden  witlidrawal  of  tlie  master  of  the 
house  could  not  but  throw  our  company  into  con- 
fusion, the  more  so  as  both  of  the  hostesses 
speedily  disappeared  also.  In  vain  did  Sletkin 
try  to  detain  us.  The  cliief  of  police  did  not  fail 
to  reprove  the  lawyer  for  his  unseasonable  frank- 
ness. "  I  could  n't  help  it!  " — replied  the  latter. 
"  It  was  my  conscience  speaking!  " 

"  There,  't  is  evident  that  he  is  a  Freemason,'* 
— whispered  Souvenir  to  me. 

"Conscience!"  retorted  the  chief  of  police. 
"We  know  all  about  your  conscience!  It's  lo- 
cated in  your  pocket,  I  tliink,  as  is  the  case  with 
all  of  us  sinners!  " 

The  priest,  in  the  meanwhile,  still  standing,  but 
foreseeing  a  speedy  end  to  the  feast,  was  uninter- 
ruptedly sending  one  morsel  after  another  into 
his  mouth. 

"  You  have  a  hearty  appetite,  I  observe,'* 
Sletkin  said  to  him  sharply. 

"  I  'm  laying  in  a  supply," — replied  the  priest, 
with  a  peaceable  grimace;  chronic  hunger  was 
audible  in  this  reply. 

The  equipages  rumbled  up  .  .  .  and  we  dis- 
persed. 

On  the  way  home,  no  one  interfered  with 
Souvenir's  writhing  and  chattering,  as  Kvitzin- 
sky  had  announced  that  he  was  tired  of  all  these 

•200 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

horrors,  "  of  no  use  to  any  one,"  and  had  set  ou'c 
homeward  in  advance,  on  foot.  ZliitkofF  took  his 
place  in  our  carriage;  the  retired  ^lajor  wore  an 
extremely  dissatisfied  aspect,  and  kept  continu- 
ally waggling  his  moustache  about,  like  a  beetle. 

"  Well,  your  High-Well-Born,"  —  lisped 
Souvenir: — "subordination  is  broken,  I  sup- 
pose? Wait  a  bit,  this  is  only  the  beginning! 
You  '11  catch  it  too.  Akh,  you  poor  bridegroom, 
poor  miserable  bridegroom,  poor  miserable  little 
bridegroom!  " 

Souvenir  was  fairly  intoxicated,  and  poor 
Zhitkoff  merely  waggled  his  moustache! 

On  reaching  home,  I  narrated  all  that  had  oc- 
curred to  my  mother.  She  heard  me  to  the  end, 
and  shook  her  head  several  times.  "  No  good 
will  come  of  it," — she  said: — "I  don't  like  all 
these  innovations!" 


291 


XV 

On  the  following  day,  Martyn  Petrovitch  came 
to  dinner.  My  mother  congratulated  him  on  the 
successful  completion  of  the  matter  he  had  un- 
dertaken. "  Now  thou  art  a  free  man," — she 
said, — "  and  must  feel  relieved." 

"  I  'm  relieved,  right  enough,  madam,"  replied 
Martyn  Petrovitch,  but  without  showing  in  the 
slightest  degree  by  the  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance that  he  really  was  relieved.  "  Perhaps  I 
shall  have  a  chance  now  to  think  of  my  soul,  and 
prepare  myself  for  the  hour  of  death,  in  the 
proper  manner." 

"Well,  how  now?" — inquired  my  mother: — 
"  do  you  still  have  those  convulsive  twitches  in 
your  palms?  " 

KharlofF  clenched  and  relaxed  the  palm  of  his 
left  hand  a  couple  of  times. 

"  Yes,  madam; — and  here  's  something  I  want 
to  tell  you:  when  I  am  on  the  point  of  falling 
asleep,  some  one  shouts  in  my  head :  '  Beware  1 
Beware! 

"  It 's  .  .  .  .  nerves," — remarked  my  mother, 
and  began  to  talk  about  the  preceding  day,  al- 
luding to  several  circumstances  which  had  accom- 
panied the  consummation  of  the  deed  of  partition. 

292 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

"Well,  yes,  yes," — Kharloff  interrupted  her: 
*  there  was  something  of  that  sort  ....  no- 
thing of  any  importance.  Only,  see  here,  I  must 
inform  you," — he  added,  falteringly, — "  Souve- 
nir's empty  words  did  not  trouble  me  yester- 
day,— even  the  lawyer, — and  he  is  an  exact 
man, — did  not  disconcert  me ;  but  the  person  who 
did  trouble  me  was  .  .  .  ."  Here  Kharloff 
hesitated. 

"Who  was  it?" — asked  my  mother. 

Kharloff  turned  his  eyes  on  her: — "  Evlam- 

piya ! 

"Evlampiya!  Thy  daughter?  In  what  way?  " 
"  Good  gracious,  madam, — she  was  just  like  a 
stone!  a  regular  statue!  Can  it  be  that  she  has  no 
feeling?  Her  sister  Anna, — well,  she  did  every- 
thing that  was  fitting.  She  's  an  artful  one ! 
But  Evlampiya — why,  I  've  shown  her, — what 's 
the  use  of  hiding  my  sin ! — I  've  shown  her 
a  great  deal  of  partiality!  Can  it  be  that  she 
is  not  sorry  for  me?  So  I  shall  fare  badly, — 
so  there  is  no  longer  any  place  for  me  on  earth, 
I  foresee,  if  I  surrender  everything  to  them; 
and  she  was  like  a  stone!  she  might  at  least 
have  grunted!  As  for  making  me  a  reverence, 
slie  did  tliat — but  there  was  no  gratitude 
\isible." 

"  Wait," — remarked  my  mother, — "  we  will 
marry  her  to  Gavrilo  Fediilitch  ....  she  will 
get  tamed  down  in  his  liands." 

293 


A  KIXG  LEAK  OF  THE   STEPPES 

Again  INIartyn  Petrovitch  cast  a  sidelong 
look  at  my  niotlK-r.  "  Well,  it  is  n't  likely  that 
Gavrilo  Fedulitch  will  do  anything  of  that  sort! 
You  are  placing  your  hopes  on  him,  I  suppose^ 
madam?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Just  so,  ma'am;  well,  you  might  as  well 
know  it.  Evlampiya  is  just  like  me,  I  must  in- 
form you:  we  have  the  same  disposition.  Kazak 
blood — and  hearts  like  coals  of  fire!  " 

"  Have  you  really  that  sort  of  heart,  my 
father?" 

KharlofF  made  no  answer.  A  brief  silence 
ensued. 

"  And  as  for  thee,  Martyn  Petrovitch," — be- 
gan my  mother, — "  in  what  manner  dost  thou  in- 
tend to  save  thy  soul  now?  Shalt  thou  go  to 
iMitrofany,  or  to  KiefF?  or,  perchance,  thou  wilt 
betake  thyself  to  the  Optin  desert  hermitage,  as 
it  is  in  the  neighbourhood?  They  say  that  such  a 
holy  monk  has  made  his  appearance  there,  .... 
his  name  is  Father  Makary,  and  no  one  can  re- 
call such  another!  He  sees  straight  through  all 
sms. 

"  If  she  should  really  turn  out  to  be  an  un- 
grateful daughter," — said  KharlofF,  in  a  hoarse 
voice, — "  I  think  it  will  be  easier  for  me  to  kill 
her  with  my  own  hands!  " 

"  What  ails  thee!   What  ails  thee!   The  Lord 

294 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

be  with  thee!  Come  to  thy  senses!  " — exclaimed 
my  mother.  "  What  speeches  are  these  that  thou 
art  making !  There  now,  that 's  exactly  what  the 
trouble  is!  thou  shouldst  have  listened  to  me,  the 
other  day,  when  thou  camest  for  advice!  But 
now,  thou  wilt  torture  thyself — and  neverthe- 
less, thou  canst  not  remedy  the  matter!  Yes! 
Here  thou  art  complaining  now,  growing 
timid " 

This  reproach  seemed  to  stab  Kharloff  in  the 
very  heart.  All  his  former  pride  rose  up  within 
him  like  a  flood. 

"  I  'm  not  the  sort  of  man,  madam,  Natalya 
Xikolaevna,  to  complain  or  turn  cowardly," — he 
said  grimly.  "  I  merely  wished  to  set  forth  my 
feelings  to  you,  as  my  benefactress,  and  a  person 
whom  I  respect.  But  the  Lord  God  knows  " 
(here  he  raised  his  hand  above  his  head)  "that 
this  earthly  sphere  shall  go  to  smash  before  I  go 
back  on  my  word,  or  .  .  .  ."  (here  he  even 
snorted)  "  or  grow  cowardly,  or  repent  of  any- 
thing I  have  done.  There  was  cause,  you  know. 
But  my  daughters  will  not  fail  in  obedience,  unto 
ages  of  ages,  amen !  " 

My  mother  stopped  her  ears.  "  Why  dost  thou 
blare  like  a  trumpet,  my  father!  If  thou  really 
bast  confidence  in  tlic  members  of  thy  houseliold, 
well,  then  tlianks  be  to  thee,  O  T^ord!  Thou 
hast  completely  shattered  my  head." 

295 


A  KING  LEAK  OF  THE  STEPPES 

^lartyn  Petrovitch  nicade  his  excuses,  heaved  a 
couple  of  sighs,  and  fell  silent.  My  mother  again 
mentioned  Kieft',  the  Optin  hermitage,  Father 
Makary  .  .  .  Kharloff  assented,  saying:  "  It 
is  necessary,  necessary  ....  I  must  ....  my 
soul  ....."  and  nothing  more.  Until  the  very 
moment  of  his  departure,  he  did  not  cheer  up; 
from  time  to  time,  he  closed  and  opened  his  hand, 
stared  at  his  palm,  said  that  the  most  terrible 
thing  of  all  to  him  would  be  to  die  without  proper 
preparation,  from  apoplexy,  and  that  he  had 
sworn  an  oath  to  himself  not  to  lose  his  temper, 
because  the  blood  is  spoiled  from  the  heart  and 

floods   the   head Moreover,    he    had   now 

set  himself  apart  from  everything;  what  cause 
would  there  be  for  him  to  lose  his  temper?  Let 
others  toil  now  and  corrupt  their  blood! 

As  he  took  leave  of  my  mother,  he  looked  at  her 
in  a  strange  way,  thoughtfully  and  interroga- 
tively. .  .  And  all  at  once,  pulling  the  volume 
of  "  The  Labourer  at  Rest  "  from  his  pocket  with 
a  swift  movement,  he  thrust  it  into  my  mother's 
hand. 

"What  is  this?"  she  asked. 

"  Read  it  ...  .  here,  in  this  place," — he  said 
hurriedly, — "  where  the  corner  of  the  page  is 
turned  down,  about  death.  It  strikes  me,  that  it 
is  very  well  said,  but  I  can't  possibly  understand 
it.    Will  not  you  expound  it  to  me,  my  benefac- 

290 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

tress?  See  here,  I  '11  come  back,  and  you  shall 
expound  it  to  me." 

With  these  words,  ^lartyn  Petrovitch  left  the 
room. 

"  There  's  something  wrong!  ekh,  there  's  some- 
thing wrong!  ' — remarked  my  mother,  as  soon  as 
he  had  disappeared  through  the  door — and  she 
set  to  work  on  "  The  Labourer  at  Rest."  On 
the  page  indicated  by  Kharloif  stood  the  follow- 
ing words: 

"  Death  is  a  great  and  important  work  of  na- 
ture. It  consists  in  nothing  else  than  this, — that 
inasmuch  as  tlie  spirit  is  lighter,  more  delicate, 
and  much  more  penetrating  than  those  elements 
to  whose  power  it  has  been  given  over,  and  also 
even  than  electric  force,  so  it  purifies  itself  chemi- 
cally, and  yearns  until  it  feels  a  spiritual  envi- 
ronment like  itself "  and  so  forth. ^ 

My  mother  perused  this  passage  twice,  ex- 
claimed, "  Pshaw!  " — and  flung  the  book  aside. 

Two  days  later  she  received  word,  that  her  sis- 
ter's husband  had  died,  and  taking  me  with  her, 
she  set  off  for  her  country  house.  jNIy  mother  had 
made  arrangements  to  spend  a  month  with  her, 
f)ut  remained  until  late  in  the  autumn — and  we 
did  not  return  to  our  country  liouse  until  the  end 
of  September. 

1  See  "The  Labourer  at  Rest,"  17H.5,  Part  II.     Moscow. 


297 


XVI 

The  first  bit  of  news  with  which  my  valet,  Pro- 
kofy  (he  regarded  himself  as  the  seigniorial 
luintsman),  greeted  me  on  my  arrival,  was,  that 
an  immense  number  of  woodcock  had  alighted, 
and  that  particularly  in  the  birch  grove  near 
Es'kovo  (the  Kharloff  estate)  they  were  fairly 
swarming.  It  was  still  three  hours  to  dinner- 
time. I  immediately  seized  my  gun  and  game- 
pouch,  and,  accompanied  by  Prokofy  and  a  setter 
dog,  I  ran  to  tlie  Es'kovo  grove.  We  really  did 
find  a  great  many  woodcock  there — and  after 
firing  about  thirty  shots,  we  killed  five  birds.  As 
I  was  hastening  homeward  with  my  booty,  I  saw 
a  peasant  ploughing  by  the  roadside.  His  horse 
had  come  to  a  standstill,  and  he,  swearing  tear- 
fully and  viciously,  was  tugging  its  head  merci- 
lessly on  one  side  with  the  rope  reins.  I  glanced 
at  the  unhappy  nag,  whose  ribs  had  almost  broken 
through  the  skin,  and  whose  sides,  drenched  in 
sweat,  were  heaving  convulsively  and  unevenly, 
like  a  blacksmith's  bellows, — and  instantly  recog- 
nised it  as  the  aged,  emaciated  mare  with  the  scar 
on  her  neck,  which  had  served  Martyn  Petro- 
vitch  for  so  many  years. 

208 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

"Is  Mr.  KharlofF  alive?"  I  asked  Prokofy. 
The  hunt  had  so  completely  absorbed  us,  that  up 
to  that  moment  we  had  not  discussed  anything 
else. 

"  Yes,  sir.     Why  do  you  ask,  sir?  " 

"  But,  surely,  this  is  his  horse?  Is  it  possible 
that  he  has  sold  her?  " 

"  Just  so,  sir,  it  is  his  horse;  only,  as  for  selling 
lier,  he  has  n't ;  but  they  have  taken  her  away  from 
him — and  given  her  to  this  peasant." 

"  ^Vhat  dost  thou  mean  by  saying  that  they 
have  taken  her  away?    And  did  he  consent?  " 

"  They  did  n't  ask  any  consent  of  him,  sir. 
There  's  a  new  order  of  things  been  set  up  during 
your  absence,"  replied  Prokofy,  with  a  faint  grin, 
in  reply  to  my  glance  of  surprise, — "  alas!  O  my 
Cxod !    ^Ir.  Sletkin  manages  everything  for  them 


now." 


"  And  Martyn  Petrovitch?  " 

"  And  ]Martyn  Petrovitch  has  become  the  very 
lowest  person  on  the  place,  so  he  has.  He  has 
])een  put  on  a  diet  of  dry  food.  They  've  done 
liim  up  completely.  The  first  any  one  knows, 
they  '11  drive  him  out  of  doors." 

The  idea  that  such  a  giant  could  be  driven 
out  absolutely  refused  to  get  itself  into  my  head. 
"  But  why  does  n't  Zliitkoif  look  after  him?  " — 
T  inquired  at  last.  "  He  married  the  second 
dangliter,  did  n't  he?  " 

"Married?"  repeated  Prokofy,  and  this  time 

200 


A  KING  T.EAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

f>'rinncd  I'roni  ear  to  ear.  "  They  won't  let  him 
enter  the  house.  '  You  're  not  wanted,'  say  they; 
'  turn  your  shafts  the  other  way,'  say  they. 
I  've  told  you  how  it  is:  Sletkin  manages  them 
all." 

"  But  what  does  the  bride  say  to  that?  " 

"  Evlampiya  JNIartynovna,  you  mean?     Ekh, 

master,  I  'd  like  to  tell  you but  you  're 

young — that 's  what  it  is.  There  have  been  such 
goings-on,  that  i  ....  i  ....  i!  Eh!  but  I 
think  Diiinka  is  making  a  point." 

In  fact,  my  dog  had  halted,  as  though  rooted 
to  the  spot,  in  front  of  a  spreading  oak  bush  in 
which  terminated  a  narrow  ravine  that  came  out 
on  the  road.  Prokofy  and  I  ran  to  the  dog;  a 
woodcock  rose  from  the  bush.  We  both  fired  at 
it,  and  missed  it ;  the  woodcock  changed  its  place ; 
we  followed  it. 

The  soup  w^as  already  on  the  table  when  I  got 
home.     iNIy  mother  reprimanded  me: 

"  What 's  this?  " — she  said  with  displeasure, — 
"  thou  hast  made  us  wait  dinner  for  thee  on  the 
very  first  day."  I  presented  her  with  the  wood- 
cock which  I  had  shot;  she  did  not  even  look  at 
them.  In  addition  to  her.  Souvenir,  Kvitzinsky, 
and  ZhitkofF  were  in  the  room.  The  retired 
INIajor  had  hidden  himself  in  a  corner, — precisely 
like  a  naughty  sch(X)l-boy;  the  expression  of  his 
face  revealed  a  mixture  of  perturbation  and  vexa- 
tion; his  eyes  were  red One  might  even 

300 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

have  supposed  that  he  had  been  weeping  re- 
cently. ]Mv  mother  continued  to  be  out  of  tern- 
per;  it  cost  me  no  great  effort  to  divine  that  my 
late  arrival  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 
During  dinner,  she  spoke  hardly  at  all;  from 
time  to  time,  the  Major  cast  pitiful  glances  at 
her,  but  he  ate  heartily,  nevertheless;  Souvenir 
trembled;  Kvitzinsky  preserved  his  customary 
intrepidity  of  demeanour. 

"  Vikenty  Osipitch,"  said  my  mother,  address- 
ing him; — "I  request  that  to-morrow  you  will 
send  the  equipage  for  ]Martyn  Petrovitch,  as  I 
Iiave  learned  that  he  has  no  longer  one  of  his 
own;  and  give  orders  that  he  is  to  be  told,  that 
lie  is  to  come  without  fail,  that  I  wish  to  see  him." 

Kvitzinsky  wanted  to  make  some  reply,  but  re- 
frained. 

"  And  give  Sletkin  to  understand," — went  on 
mv  mother, — "  that  I  command  him  to  come  to 
me Do  you  hear?     I  com  ....  mand!" 

"  There,     that 's     precisely  ....  what     that 

scoundrel  needs "  began  Zliitkoff  in  an 

undertone;  but  my  mother  cast  such  a  scornful 
look  at  him,  that  he  immediately  turned  away, 
and  fell  silent. 

"Do  you  hear?  I  command!" — repeated  my 
mother. 

"  I  obc}',  ma'am," — said  Kvitzinsky,  submis- 
sively, but  with  dignity. 

"  ^lartvn     Petrovitch     won't     come!" — whis- 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

])cre(l  Souvenir  to  me,  as  we  left  the  dining-room 
together  after  dinner.  "  Just  see,  what  he  has 
become!  It 's  incredible ! — I  think — that  no  mat- 
ter what  is  said  to  him, — he  does  n't  understand 
a  single  thing.  Yes!  They  've  squeezed  the  ad- 
der with  pitchforks!  " 

And  Souvenir  broke  into  his  quavering  laugh. 


i502 


XVII 

Sou^'ENiR^s  prediction  proved  correct.  Martyn 
Petrovitch  would  not  come  to  my  mother.  She 
was  displeased  at  this,  and  sent  him  a  note;  he 
sent  back  to  her  a  quarter  of  a  sheet  of  paper,  on 
which,  in  big  letters,  the  following  words  were 
written:  "  Indeed,  by  heaven,  I  cannot.  Shame 
would  kill  me.  Let  me  perish.  Thanks.  Don't 
worry.  KharlofF  oSIartynko."  Sletkin  came, 
but  not  on  the  dav  on  which  mv  mother  had 
"  commanded "  him  to  present  himself,  but  a 
whole  day  later.    My  mother  gave  orders  that  he 

should  be  conducted  to  her  boudoir God 

knows  what  their  conversation  was  about,  but  it 
lasted  a  very  short  time  only:  not  more  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Sletkin  came  out  of  my  mo- 
tlier's  room,  all  red  in  the  face,  and  with  such  a 
viciously-evil  and  impudent  expression  of  counte- 
nance, that  on  encountering  liim  in  the  drawing- 
nK)m,  I  was  dumfounded,  and  Souvenir,  who 
was  ski])ping  about  there,  did  not  finish  the  laugh 
which  he  had  begun.  My  mother  also  emerged 
from  her  boudoir  all  red  in  the  face,  and  an- 
nounced, in  the  hearing  of  all,  that  Mr.  Sletkin, 


A  KING  LEAH  OF  THE  STEPPES 

henceforth,  would  not  be  admitted  to  her  house 
on  any  i)rctext  wluitsoever;  and  that  if  INIartyn 
Petrovitch's  dau«4hters  should  take  it  into  their 
heads  to  present  themselves — they  were  quite 
brazen-faced  enough  foi-  that, — they,  also,  were 
to  be  sent  about  their  business.  At  dinner,  she 
suddenly  exclaimed: — "What  a  wretched  little 
Jew !  And  it  was  I  who  dragged  him  out  of  the 
gutter  by  his  ears,  it  was  I  who  made  somebody 
of  him,  he  is  indebted  to  me  for  everything, 
everything — and  he  dares  to  tell  me,  that  I  have 
no  right  to  intermeddle  with  their  affairs! — that 
iNIartyn  Petrovitch  is  a  fool — and  it  is  impossible 
to  indulge  him  in  his  caprices!  Indulge!  Did 
you  ever  hear  the  like?  Akh,  he  's  an  ungrateful 
young  cub!  A  dirty  little  Jew!" — Major  Zliit- 
kofF,  who  was  also  among  the  diners,  imagined 
that  now  God  himself  had  bidden  him  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  opportunity,  and  put  in  his  word 
.  .  .  but  my  mother  immediately  snubbed  him. 
"  Well,  and  thou  art  a  nice  person,  also,  my 
father!  " — said  she.  "  Thou  wert  not  able  to  get 
along  with  the  girl,  and  yet  thou  art  an  officer! 
Thou  hast  commanded  a  company!  I  can  im- 
agine how  it  obeyed  thee!  And  thou  hadst  aspi- 
rations to  become  my  agent!  A  pretty  agent 
thou  wouldst  have  made!  " 

Kvitzinsky,  who  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
smiled  to  himself,  not  without  malevolent  delight, 
while  poor  Zhitkoff  merely  wagged  his  mous- 

304 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

tache,  and  elevated  his  eyebrows,  and  buried  the 
whole  of  his  hairy  face  in  his  napkin. 

After  dinner,  he  went  out  on  the  porch  to 
smoke  his  pipe,  according  to  his  habit, — and  he 
seemed  to  me  so  pitiful  and  forlorn  an  object, 
that  although  I  did  not  like  him,  I  joined  him. 

"  How  did  it  come  about,  Gavrilo  Fediilitch," 
I  began,  without  any  circumlocution—"  that  your 
affair  with  Evlampiya  iSIartynovna  suffered 
shipwreck?  I  had  supposed  that  you  were  mar- 
ried long  ago." 

The  retired  ]Major  cast  a  dejected  glance  at 
me. 

"  The  sly  snake," — he  began,  with  mournful 
care  pronouncing  every  letter  of  every  word, — 
"  has  poisoned  me  with  her  sting,  and  has  turned 
all  my  liopes  in  life  to  dust!  And  I  would  like 
to  tell  you,  Dmitry  Semyonovitch,  all  her  viper- 
ous deeds,  but  I  'm  afraid  of  angering  your  mo- 
ther! "  ("  You  're  still  very  young  " — Prokofy's 
expression  flashed  through  my  mind.)  "  So  be 
it.  .  .  ."— ZliitkofF  quacked. 

"  Endure  it  ...  .  endure  it  ...  .  nothing 
else  remains  to  be  done!  "  (He  smote  himself  on 
the  chest  with  his  clenched  fist.)  "Be  patient, 
faithful  old  soldier,  endure!  I  have  served  the 
Tzar  with  fidelity  and  tnith  .  .  .  uncomplain- 
ingly   yes!    I  have  not  spared  my  sweat 

and  blood,  but  now  what  have  I  come  to!  Hud 
this  thing  happened  in  the  regiment — and  had  the 

30.5 


A  KIXC;   LKAK  OF  TllK  STEPPES 

matter  depended  upon  me," — he  went  on  after  a 
brief  })aiise,  j)ulling  away  convulsively  at  his 
clierry-wood   tehihouk, — "  I  'd   liave   given   it  to 

liini 1  'd  liave  had  him  Hogged  with  the 

flat  of  tlie  sword,  in  three  relays  .  .  .  that  is, 
until  he  tumbled  over " 

Zhitkoff  took  the  })ipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
riveted  his  gaze  on  space,  as  though  inwardly  ad- 
miring the  picture  which  he  had  conjured  up. 

Souvenir  ran  up,  and  began  to  jeer  at  the 
INIajor.  I  stepped  aside  from  them — and  made 
up  my  mind  that  I  would  see  Martyn  Petrovitch, 

at   M'hatever   cost My  childish   curiosity 

was  strongly  piqued. 


306 


XVIII 

Ox  the  following  day,  I  again  set  out  with  my 
gun  and  dog,  but  without  Prokofy,  for  the  Es'- 
kovo  grove.  The  day  turned  out  to  be  magnifi- 
cent. I  think  there  are  no  such  days  anywiiere 
in  September,  except  in  Russia.  Such  silence 
reigned,  tliat  one  could  hear  a  rabbit  leaping 
over  the  dry  leaves  a  hundred  paces  off,  and  a 
broken  twig  first  faintly  catching  on  other  twigs, 
and  at  last  falling  on  the  soft  grass — falling  for 
good  and  all:  never  to  stir  again  all  the  while  it  is 
rotting.  The  air,  neither  warm  nor  cool,  but  only 
fragrant,  rather  acrid,  just  pinched  the  eyes  and 
cheeks  agreeably;  slender  as  a  thread  of  silk,  with 
a  white  little  ball  in  the  centre,  a  long  spider's- 
web  floated  along  and  cauglit  on  the  barrel  of  my 
gun,  stretcliing  straight  upward  in  the  air — an 
infallible  sign  of  warm  weather.  The  sun  shone, 
])ut  as  mildly  as  though  it  were  the  moon.  Wood- 
cock turned  u])  (juite  fretjuently;  but  I  paid  no 
particular  attention  to  them:  I  knew  that  the 
grove  extended  almost  to  the  very  manor-house  of 
Kharloff,  to  the  very  wattled  fence  of  his  garden 
— and  wended  my  steps  in  that  direction — al- 
though I  could  not  imagine  how  I  was  going  to 

307 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

make  my  way  into  the  house  itself,  and  even  felt 
douhtfiil  as  to  whether  1  ought  so  much  as  to  try 
to  enter  there,  as  my  motlier  was  wroth  with  the 
new  owners. 

Living  human  sounds  surprised  me  in  the  far 
distance.  1  began  to  listen.  .  .  .  Some  one  was 
walking  through  the  copse  ....  straight  toward 
me. 

"  But  thou  mightest  have  said  so  .  o  .  ." — a 
feminine  voice  became  audible. 

"Oh,  you  may  talk!"  interrupted  another 
voice, — a  man's.  "  Dost  thou  suppose  everything 
can  be  done  at  once?  " 

I  knew  the  voices.  Glimpses  of  a  woman's 
sky-blue  gown  were  visible  through  the  thinning 
nut-bushes;  alongside  it,  a  dark  kaftan  showed 
itself.  Another  moment — and  Sletkin  and  Ev- 
lampiya  emerged  into  the  glade  five  paces  from 
me. 

They  suddenly  became  confused.  Evlampiya 
instantly  retreated  into  the  bushes.  Sletkin  re- 
flected— and  advanced  to  meet  me.  On  his  face 
there  was  no  longer  visible  even  a  trace  of  that 
servile  submissiveness  with  which,  four  months 
previously,  he  had  walked  up  and  down  the  yard 
of  the  KharlofF  house,  polishing  the  chain  of  my 
horse's  bridle;  but  neither  could  I  read  in  it  that 
impudent  defiance, — the  defiance  wherew^ith  that 
face  had  so  astounded  me  on  the  preceding  day, 
on  the  threshold  of  my  mother's  boudoir.    As  of 

308 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

yore,  it  was  white  and  comely,  but  appeared  to  be 
more  solid  and  broader. 

"  Well,  have  you  shot  many  woodcock?  " — ^lie 
asked  me,  raising  his  cap,  smirking,  and  passing 
his  hand  over  his  black  curls.    "  You  are  hunting 

in  our  gro\"e You  are  welcome!    We  do 

not  hinder.  .  .  On  the  contrary!" 

"  I  have  killed  nothing  to-day," — said  I,  reply- 
ing to  his  first  question:  "  and  I  shall  leave  your 
grove  immediately." 

Sletkin  hastily  replaced  his  cap.  "  Good  gra- 
cious! why?  We  are  not  driving  you  out — and 
we  are  even  very  glad.  .  .  .  Here  's  Evlampiya 
Martynovna,  who  will  say  the  same.  Evlampiya 
^Martynovna,  please  come  hither!  Where  have 
you  hidden  yourself?  " 

Evlampiya's  head  made  its  appearance  from 
behind  the  bushes;  but  she  did  not  come  to  us. 
She  had  become  still  handsomer  of  late — and 
seemed  to  have  grown  taller  and  stouter. 

"  I  must  confess," — went  on  Sletkin, — "  that 
it  is  even  very  agreeable  for  me  to  have  '  met ' 
you.  Although  you  are  still  young — yet  you  al- 
ready possess  genuine  good  sense.  Your  mother 
^vas  pleased  to  be  angry  with  me  yesterday — she 
would  n't  listen  to  any  reasons  from  me,  but  I 
say  to  you,  as  I  would  say  it  in  the  presence  of 
(Un] :  I  am  not  in  the  sliglitest  degree  to  blame. 
It  is  impossible  to  treat  ^lartyn  Pctrovitch  other- 
wise: he  has  fallen  into  utter  childisliness.     It  is 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

impossible  for  us  to  comply  with  all  his  caprices, 
— good  gracious!  And  we  show  him  all  due  re- 
spect! Ask  Evliimpiya  ]Mai*tynovna  here  if  we 
don't!" 

Evliimpiya  did  not  stir;  her  habitual  scornful 
smile  hovered  over  her  lips — and  her  beautiful 
eyes  had  an  unfriendly  gaze. 

"  But,  Vladimir  Vasilitch,  why  did  you  sell 
INIartyn  Petrovitch's  horse?"  (That  horse  trou- 
bled me  particularly  by  being  in  a  peasant's  pos- 
session.) 

"  Why  did  we  sell  his  horse?  But,  mercy  on  me, 
what  was  it  good  for?  It  merely  devoured  hay, 
without  earning  it.  But  with  the  peasant,  it  can 
still  till  the  earth.  But  all  ^lartyn  Petrovitch  has 
to  do,  if  he  takes  it  into  his  head  to  go  anywhere, 
is  to  ask  us.  We  don't  refuse  him  an  equipage. 
On  days  when  no  work  is  going  on,  with  the 
greatest  pleasure!" 

"Vladimir  Vasilievitch !  "— said  Evlampiya, 
in  a  low  tone,  as  though  calling  him  away,  and 
still  not  (juitting  her  place.  She  was  twisting 
several  stalks  of  plantain  in  her  fingers,  and  had 
cut  off  their  heads  by  beating  them  against  each 
other. 

"  And  here  's  another  thing,  about  the  page 
Maximka,"— went  on  Sletkin :— "  Martyn  Pe- 
trovitch complains,  and  w^ants  to  know  why  we 
have  taken  him  away  from  him  and  apprenticed 
him.    But,  please  judge  for  yourself:  what  would 

310 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

he  have  done  with  ^Slartyn  Petrovitch?  Spent 
his  time  in  idleness ;  that  "s  all.  And  serve  prop- 
erly he  cannot,  because  of  his  stupidity  and  his 
youth.  But  now  we  have  apprenticed  him  to  the 
saddler.  He  '11  come  out  a  good  workman — and 
will  bring  profit  to  himself,  and  will  pay  us 
quit-rent.  And  in  our  little  household,  that  is  an 
important  point,  sir !  In  our  little  household,  no- 
thing must  be  neglected!  " 

"  And  this  is  the  man  whom  IMartyn  Petrovitch 
called  a  rag!  " — I  thought.  "  But  who  reads 
to  Martyn  Petrovitch  now?" — I  inquired. 

"  But  what  is  there  to  read?  There  was  one 
book, — but,  luckily,  it  has  disappeared  some- 
where or  other.  .  .  And  what  does  he  want  of 
reading  at  his  age!  " 

"  But  who  shaves  him? " — I  asked  another 
({uestion. 

Sletkin  smiled  approvingly,  as  though  in  re- 
sponse to  an  amusing  jest.  "  Why,  no  one.  At 
first,  he  used  to  singe  it  off  with  a  candle,  but  now 
he  lets  it  grow.    And  that 's  fine !  " 

"Vladimir  Vasilievitch !  " — repeated  Evlam- 
piya,  importunately.  "  Hey — Vladimir  Vasi- 
lievitch! " 

Sletkin  made  a  sign  to  her  with  his  hand. 

"  Martyn  Petrovitch  is  shod,  clothed,  and  fed, 
just  as  we  are  ourselves;  what  more  does  he  want? 
Tie  himself  has  declared,  that  he  desires  nothing 
more  in  the  world,  except  to  care  for  his  soul.    He 

311 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 


iiiight  take  into  consideration  tlie  fact,  that — any- 
way— everything  is  ours  now,  not  his.  He  says, 
also,  that  we  do  not  pay  him  his  allowance;  but 
we  don't  always  have  money  ourselves;  and  what 
does  he  need  it  for,  when  he  has  everything  pro- 
vided for  him?  But  we  treat  him  as  a  relative 
should  be  treated :  I  'm  speaking  the  truth  to 
vou.  The  rooms,  for  instance,  in  which  he  re- 
sides, — how  much  we  need  them !  Without  them, 
we  simply  have  n't  space  enough  to  turn  round 
in;  but  we  don't  mind — we  endure  it.  We  are 
even  thinking  of  how  we  may  afford  him  diver- 
sion. For  instance,  I  bought  him  some  fish-hooks 
as  a  present  on  St.  Peter's  day,  sple-endid  hooks, 
real  English:  expensive  hooks!  so  that  he  might 
catch  fish.  There  are  carp  in  our  pond.  He 
might  sit  and  fish !  If  he  were  to  sit  there  for  an 
hour  or  two,  there  'd  be  material  for  supper  ready 
to  hand.  It 's  a  most  dignified  occupation  for 
old  men! " 

"Vladimir  Vasilievitch !  " — said  Evlampiya 
for  the  third  time,  in  a  decisive  tone,  and  flung 
away  the  plantain-stalks  which  she  had  been 
twirhng  in  her  fingers.  "I'm  going!"  Her 
ej^es  met  mine.  "  I  'm  going  away,  Vladimir 
Vasilievitch !  "  she  repeated,  and  disappeared  be- 
hind the  bushes. 

"  I  '11  be  there  directly,  Evlampiya  Marty- 
novna,  I'll  come  directly!" — shouted  Sletkin. 
"  Martyn  Petrovitch  himself  now  approves  of 

312 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

us," — he  continued,  again  addressing  me.  "  At 
first,  he  really  did  take  offence;  and  he  even 
grumbled,  until  he  came  to  understand,  you 
know:  he  was,  if  you  will  please  to  remember,  a 
hot-tempered,  stubborn  man — awfully  so!  Well, 
and  now  he  has  become  perfectly  quiet.  Because, 
he  has  perceived  that  it  is  for  his  advantage. 
Your  mamma — and  oh,  my  God!  how  she  did 
fall  foul  of  me.  .  .  .  Of  course,  a  lady  prizes 
her  power  just  as  much  as  ]Martyn  Petrovitch 
used  to  prize  his;  well  now,  come  in  and  see  for 
yourself — and  seize  the  opportunity  to  say  a 
word.  I  am  very  sensible  of  Xatalya  Xiko- 
laevna's  benefits;  but  we  must  live  also,  never- 
theless! " 

"  But  why  was  ZliitkofF  dismissed?  " — I  asked. 

"  Fedulitch,  you  mean?  That  big  lubber?  " 
Sletkin  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Why,  mercy 
on  us,  of  what  use  could  he  be  ?  He  had  spent  all 
his  life  as  a  soldier,  and  then  took  it  into  his  head 
to  busy  himself  with  farming.  '  I  can  administer 
chastisement  to  the  peasants,'  says  he.  '  Because 
I  'm  accustomed  to  strike  men  in  the  face.'  He 
can't  do  anything,  sir.  One  must  understand  the 
proper  way  even  to  strike  a  man  in  the  face.  But 
Evlampiya  Martynovna  herself  dismissed  him. 
He  's  a  wholly  unsuitable  man.  Our  whole  prop- 
erty would  have  vanislied  with  him  around!  " 

"A-oo!" — rang  out  Evlampiya's  resonant 
voice. 

313 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

"  Iniincdlutcly'.  iininediatcly!  "  —  responded 
Slctkin.  lie  offered  me  his  hand.  1  shook  it, 
thougli  nnwillinoly. 

"  (n)O(l-bye,  Dmitry  Semyonitch,"^ — said  Slet- 
kin,  disphiying  all  his  white  teeth.  "  Shoot  as 
many  woodcock  as  you  please;  they  are  birds  of 
passage,  they  belong  to  no  one  in  particular;  but 
if  you  should  come  upon  a  hare, — you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  spare  it;  that's  our  property.  Yes, 
and  one  thing  more!  do  you  happen  to  have  a 
female  pup  from  your  bitch?  We  should  be  very 
glad  if  you  would  give  it  to  us! " 

"  A-oo!  " — rang  out  Evlampiya's  voice  again. 

"A-oo!  a-oo!"  —  responded  Sletkin,  and 
rushed  into  the  bushes. 


314 


XIX 

I  REJViEMBER,  that  wlieii  I  was  left  alone,  I  was 
occupied  with  the  thought:  how  came  it,  that 
KharlofF  had  not  struck  Sletkin  in  such  a  way 
"  that  only  a  wet  blot  would  remain  on  the  spot 
where  he  had  been?" — and  how  came  it,  that 
Sletkin  had  not  been  afraid  of  such  a  fate?  Evi- 
dently, Martyn  Petrovitch  really  had  become 
"  quiet,"  I  said  to  myself — and  my  desire  to  be- 
take myself  to  Es'kovo,  and  get  at  least  a  peep 
with  one  eye  at  that  colossus,  whom  I  could  not 
possibly  picture  to  myself  as  intimidated  and  sub- 
missive, grew  stronger  than  ever.  I  had  already 
reached  the  edge  of  the  woods,  when  suddenly, 
from  beneath  my  very  feet,  a  large  woodcock 
darted  forth,  with  a  vehement  whirring  of  its 
wings,  and  flew  headlong  into  the  recesses  of  the 
grove.  I  took  aim;  my  gun  missed  fire.  I  was 
very  much  vexed:  the  bird  was  a  fine  one,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  try  and  see  whether  I  could 
not  raise  it  again.  I  walked  in  the  direction  of 
its  flight — and  after  proceeding  for  a  couple 
of  hundred  paces,  I  espied  on  a  small  grass-plot, 
beneath  a  spreading  birch-tree — not  the  wood- 
cock,— but    that    same    Mr.    Sletkin.     lie    was 

315 


A  KIXC;   LKAR  Ol"  THE  STEPPES 

Ivino-  (in  his  back,  with  both  hands  clasped  under 
his  head, — and  was  staring  up  at  the  sky  with  a 
contented  smile,  as  he  dangled  iiis  left  leg,  which 
was  thrown  over  his  right  knee.  He  did  not  per- 
ceive my  advance.  Evlampiya  was  strolling 
about  the  glade,  w^ith  downcast  eyes,  a  few  paces 
i'rom  him ;  she  seemed  to  be  hunting  for  something 
in  the  grass — mushrooms,  perhaps, — now  and 
then  bending  down,  stretching  out  her  hand, — 
and  was  singing  in  a  low  voice.  I  came  to  an  in- 
stantaneous standstill,  and  began  to  listen.  At 
first,  1  could  not  understand  what  it  w^as  that  she 
was  singing,  but  afterward  I  distinctly  recog- 
nised the  following  familiar  lines  of  an  ancient 
ballad : 

"  Come  thou,  storm-cloud,  come, 
Kill,  kill  batiushka-father-in-law. 

Strike  thou,  lightning,  strike  matushka-mothcr-in-law, 
But  I  myself  will  slay  the  youthful  wife."^ 

Evlampiya  sang  louder  and  louder:  she  pro- 
longed the  concluding  words  with  particular 
force.  Sletkin  continued  to  lie  on  his  back  and 
laugh,  and  she  seemed  to  be  constantly  circling 
round  him. 

"  What  a  girl  thou  art!  " — he  said  at  last. 
"  And  w^hat  queer  ideas  thou  dost  get  into  thy 
head!" 

1  Only  the  second  and  third  lines  rhyme  in  the 
original. — Tbanslatoh. 

316 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

"What  dost  thou  mean  by  that?" — asked 
Evlampiya. 

Sletkin  raised  his  head  a  Httle.  "  What  do 
I  mean?  What  remarks  are  those  that  thou  art 
making?" 

"  Thou  knowest  well  enough,  Volodya,  that 
one  can't  omit  words  from  a  song,"  replied  Ev- 
lampiya, as  she  turned  round,  and  caught  sight  of 
me.  We  both  uttered  an  exclamation  simulta- 
neously, and  both  fled  in  opposite  directions. 

I  hastily  made  my  way  out  of  the  grove,  and 
traversing  a  narrow  glade,  found  myself  in  front 
of  the  KharlofF  garden. 


317 


XX 

I  HAD  had  no  time  to  reflect  on  what  I  had  seen, — 
neither  was  there  any  reason  why  I  should  do 
so.  I  remembered  only  the  expression,  "  love- 
spell,"  which  1  had  been  recently  made  acquainted 
with,  and  whose  significance  had  greatly  amazed 
me.  I  walked  along  the  wattled  fence  of  the  gar- 
den, and  a  few  moments  later,  from  behind  the 
silver-poplars  (they  had  not  lost  a  single  leaf,  as 
yet,  and  spread  luxuriantly),  I  saw  Martyn  Pe- 
trovitch's  yard  and  house.  The  whole  garden 
appeared  to  me  to  have  been  cleaned  and  spruced 
up:  everywhere  traces  of  constant  and  strict  su- 
pervision were  visible.  Anna  Martynovna  made 
her  appearance  on  the  porch,  and  screwing  up 
her  pale-blue  eyes,  she  gazed  long  in  the  direction 
of  the  grove. 

"  Hast  thou  seen  thy  master? " — she  asked  of 
a  peasant  who  was  passing  through  the  yard. 

"  Vladimir  Vasilitch? " — replied  the  man, 
plucking  his  cap  from  his  head.  "  I  think  he 
went  to  the  grove." 

"  I  know  that  he  was  in  the  grove.  Has  n't  he 
returned?  Hast  not  thou  seen  him?  " 

"  I  have  n't  seen  him  .  .  .  no." 

The  peasant  continued  to  stand  capless  in  front 
of  Anna  IMartA'novna. 

318 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

"  Well,  go  along," — said  she.  "  Or,  no  .  .  . 
stay  .  .  .  Where  is  ^Martyn  Petrovitch?  Dost 
thou  know? " 

"  Why,  ]Martyn  Petrovitch," — replied  the 
peasant  in  a  singsong  tone,  raising  his  right 
and  his  left  hand  alternately,  as  though  pointing 
at  something, — "  is  sitting  yonder,  by  the  pond, 
with  a  fishing-rod.  He  's  catching  fish,  I  sup- 
pose.    God  knows!" 

"Good!  .  .  .  Go  thy  way," — repeated  Anna 
]Mart3^novna, — "and  pick  up  that  wheel;  thou 
seest  it  is  lying  around." 

The  peasant  flew  to  execute  her  command,  and 
slie  stood  for  a  few  moments  longer  on  the  porch, 
and  still  kept  gazing  in  the  direction  of  the  grove. 
Then  she  silently  shook  her  fist,  and  slowly  went 
into  the  house.  "  Aksiiitka!  " — rang  out  her  im- 
perious voice  indoors. 

Anna  Martynovna  wore  a  wrathful  aspect,  and 
seemed  to  compress  in  a  peculiarly  firm  manner 
her  lips,  which  were  thin  enough  already.  She 
was  carelessly  dressed,  and  a  lock  of  dishevelled 
hair  fell  on  her  shoulder.  But  notwithstandino- 
the  slatternliness  of  her  attire,  notwithstanding 
her  ire,  she  seemed  to  me  as  attractive  as  ever, 
and  it  would  have  afforded  me  great  pleasure  to 
kiss  the  slender  hand,  that  also  seemed  somehow 
malicious,  with  which,  a  couple  of  times,  she  swept 
back  that  dishevelled  lock  in  anger. 


310 


XXI 

"  Can  it  be  possible  tliat  Martyn  Petrovitch  has 
actually  turned  fisherman?  "  I  asked  myself,  as 
I  wended  my  way  to  the  pond,  which  lay  on  the 
further  side  of  the  garden.  I  stepped  upon  the 
dam,  and  glanced  here  and  there.  .  .  .  JNIartyn 
Petrovitch  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  I  strolled 
along  one  of  the  shores  of  the  pond, — and,  at  last, 
almost  at  the  very  end  of  it,  in  a  tiny  bay,  among 
the  flat,  broken  stalks  of  the  rusty  weeds,  I  espied 

a  vast,  grayish  crag I  took  a  closer  look: 

it  was  KharlofF.  Hatless,  dishevelled,  in  a  crash 
kaftan  split  at  the  seams,  with  his  legs  tucked  up 
under  him,  he  was  sitting  motionless  on  the  bare 
earth;  so  motionless  did  he  sit,  that  a  sandpiper, 
at  my  approach,  broke  from  the  dried  mud  a 
couple  of  paces  from  him,  and  flew  away,  flap- 
ping its  little  wings  and  whistling,  across  the  wa- 
tery expanse.  It  must  have  been,  that  no  one  had 
stirred  in  its  vicinity  for  a  long  time,  or  fright- 
ened it.  Kharl6ff*'s  whole  figure  was  unusual  to 
such  a  degree,  that  no  sooner  did  my  dog  catch 
sight  of  him,  than  it  stopped  abruptly,  planted 
its  legs,  dropped  its  tail  between  its  legs,  and  set 
up  a  howl.     He  barely  turned  his  head,  and  fixed 

32. 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

his  wild  eyes  on  my  dog.  His  beard  had  changed 
him  greatly,  although  short,  but  it  was  thick,  and 
curled  in  white  whorls,  like  Persian  lambskin.  In 
his  right  hand  lay  the  end  of  a  fishing-rod;  the 
other  end  rocked  feebly  on  the  water.  jNIy  heart 
involuntarily  contracted  with  pain;  but  I 
plucked  up  my  courage,  went  to  him,  and  bade 
him  good-morning.  He  winked  slowly,  as 
though  he  had  just  waked  up. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  JNIartyn  Petro- 
vitch," — I  began, — "are  you  catching  fish?" 

"  Yes fish,' — he  replied,  in  a  hoarse 

voice,  and  jerked  his  rod  upward;  from  its  end 
dangled  a  fragment  of  line,  about  two  feet  in 
length,  devoid  of  a  hook. 

"  Your  line  is  broken," — I  remarked,  and  then 
I  perceived,  that  ^Nlartyn  Petrovitch  had  neither 

bait-can  nor  worms  beside  him And  what 

fishing  could  there  be  in  September,  anyway? 

"  Is  it  broken?  " — he  said,  and  passed  his  hand 
over  his  face.     "  But  it  makes  no  difference." 

Again  he  flung  out  his  line. 

"  Are  you  Xatalya  Xikolaevna's  son?  " — he 
asked,  after  a  couple  of  minutes,  during  which  I 
had  })een  scrutinising  liim,  not  without  secret 
amazement.  Although  he  had  grown  very  thin, 
he  still  seemed  a  giant;  but  in  what  rags  he  was 
clad,  and  liow  neglected  he  was! 

"  Yes," — I  replied, — "  I  am  the  son  of  Na- 
tiilya  Xikoliievna  15   *  *  *  " 

321 


A  KING  I.EAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

"Is  she  well  r' 

"  iSIy  mother  is  well.  She  was  very  much 
pained  by  your  refusal,"  I  added;  "she  did  not 
in  the  least  expect  that  you  would  not  wish  to 
go  to  lier." 

]\Iartyn  Petrovitch  dropped  his  head.  "And 
hast  thou  been  there?"  he  asked,  nodding  his 
head  to  one  side. 

"Where?" 

"  Yonder,  at  the  manor-house.  Hast  thou 
been?  Go  away.  What  hast  thou  to  do  here? 
Go  away.  There  's  no  use  in  talking  to  me.  I 
don't  like  it." 

He  stopped. 

"  Thou  wouldst  like  to  play  all  the  time  with 
thy  gun.  When  I  was  of  thy  age,  I  used  to  run 
that  same  road.  Only,  I  had  a  father  ....  but 
I  revered  him,  so  I  did ! — not  like  the  folks  of  the 
present  day.  JNIy  father  used  to  thrash  me  with 
a  long  whip — and  that  settled  it !  I  stopped  play- 
ing! Therefore,  I  respected  him  .  .  .  Phew!  .  .  . 
1  es 

Again  Kharloff  ceased  speaking. 

"  And  thou  must  not  stay  here," — he  began 
again.  "  Go  to  the  manor-house.  The  house- 
keeping is  splendidly  run  there  now.  Vo- 
lodka  .  .  .  ."  He  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
"  That  Volodka  of  mine  is  a  great  hand  at  all 
sorts  of  things.  A  fine  fellow!  but  what  a  beast 
he  is,  too! " 

322 


"A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say;  Martyn  Petro- 
vitch  spoke  very  calmly. 

"And  just  look  at  my  daughters!  You  re- 
member that  I  had  daughters,  1  suppose.     They 

are   also clever  managers.     But   I   am 

getting  old,  brother;  I  have  stepped  aside.  To 
rest,  thou  knowest " 

"A  pretty  sort  of  rest!" — I  said  to  myself, 
casting  a  glance  around  me.  "  ]Martyn  Petro- 
vitch!" — I  said  aloud.  "You  must,  positively, 
come  to  us." 

Kharloff  glanced  at  me.  "  Go  away,  brother; 
that 's  my  answer." 

"  Do  not  grieve  my  mother;  do  come." 

"Go  thy  way,  brother;  go  thy  way," — reit- 
erated KharlofF.  "  Why  dost  thou  care  to  talk 
to  me?" 

"If  you  have  no  equipage,  mamma  will  send 
you  hers." 

"Go  away!" 

"  But  really  now,  Martyn  Petrovitch!  " 

Again  KharlofF  hung  his  head — and  it  seemed 
to  me,  that  liis  cheeks,  which  had  grown  dark  as 
though  covered  with  earth,  flushed  slightly. 

"  I  mean  it ;  do  come," — I  went  on.  "  Why 
do  vou  sit  here?  Whv  do  vou  torture  yourself?  " 

"  WHiat  dost  tliou  mean  by  torturing  myself?  " 
he  faltered. 

"  Precisely  that — torturing  thyself!  " — I  re- 
peated. 

323 


A  KING  I.KAK   OF  THE   STEPPES 

Kharloif  maintained  silence,  and  seemed  to  be 
absorbed  in  tbouglit. 

Encouraged   by  bis  silence,   I  decided  to  be 
frank,  to  act  in  a  straigbtforward,  open  manner. 
(Do  not  forget,  tbat  I  was  only  fifteen  years 
old.) 

"  INIartyn  Petrovitch  " — I  began,  seating  my- 
self by  bis  side: — "  you  see,  1  know  everytbing, 
absolutely  everytbing!  I  know  bow  your  son-in- 
law^  treats  you — witb  tbe  consent  of  your 
daugbters,  of  course.  And  now  you  are  in  sucb 
a  position  .  .  .  But  wby  get  low-spirited?" 

Kbarloff  persisted  in  bis  silence,  and  merely 
dropped  bis  rod ;  and  I — wbat  a  wise  fellow,  wbat 
a  pbilosopber  I  felt  myself  to  be! 

"  Of  course," — I  began  again, — "  you  acted 
incautiously,  in  surrendering  everytbing  to  your 
daugbters.  That  was  very  magnanimous  on  your 
part  .  .  .  and  I  sball  not  reproach  you  for  it. 
It  is  far  too  rare  a  trait  in  our  days!  But  if  your 
daughters  are  so  ungrateful — then  you  ought  to 
display  scorn  .  .  .  precisely  that — scorn  .  .  .  but 
not  get  cast  down  ..,.." 

"Let  me  alone!" — whispered  Kbarloff,  sud- 
denly gnashing  bis  teeth,  and  his  eyes,  which  were 

riveted  on  the  pond,  sparkled  wrathfully 

"  Go  away!  " 

"  But,  Martvn  Petrovitch  .  .  .  ." 

"  Go  away,  I  tell  thee  ...  if  thou  dost  not, 
I '11  kill  thee!" 

324 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

I  had  moved  up  quite  close  to  him;  but  at  his 
last  words,  I  invokmtarily  sprang  to  my  feeto 
"  What  was  that  you  said,  ]Martyn  Petrovitch?  " 

"  I  '11  kill  thee,'l  tell  thee:  begone!  "—With  a 
fierce  groan  and  roar,  his  voice  forced  itself  from 
IvharlofF's  breast,  but  he  did  not  turn  his  head, 
and  went  on  wrathfully  staring  straight  in  front 
of  him.  "  I  '11  take  and  flino;  thee  and  all  thy 
foolish  advice  into  the  water.  That  will  teach 
thee  not  to  bother  old  folks,  thou  green  strip- 
ling! " 

"He  has  gone  mad!"  flashed  through  my 
mind. 

I  looked  at  him  more  intently,  and  was  com- 
pletely  dumfounded.  ^Martyn  Petrovitch  was 
weeping!  Tear  after  tear  trickled  from  his  eye- 
lashes upon  his  cheeks  ....  and  his  face  had 
assumed  a  thoroughly  savage  expression 

"  Begone!  " — he  shouted  once  more, — "  or  I  '11 
kill  tliee,  by  God!  so  that  it  won't  become  a  habit 
with  others!  " 

His  whole  ])ody  twitclied  to  one  side,  as  it  were, 
and  sliowed  his  teeth  in  a  snarl,  like  a  wild  boar; 
I  seized  my  gun,  and  set  off  on  a  run.  ]My  dog 
followed  me,  ])arking.     It  was  frightened  also. 

On  reaching  home,  I  did  not,  of  course,  hint  to 
my  mother,  by  so  much  as  a  word,  what  I  liad 
seen;  but  when  I  met  Souvenir,  I — the  devil 
knows  why — told  him  all.  That  repulsive  man 
was   so   dchghted    at   my    narrative,    and    burst 

32o 


A  KING  LEAH   OF  THE   STEPPES 

into  sucli  a  sqiieiiliiig  laugh,  and  even  leaped  up 
and  down,  that  I  came  near  giving  liini  a  thrash- 
ing. 

"Ekh!  Wouldn't  I  have  liked  to  see  "—he 
kept  repeating,  choking  with  laughter, — "  how 
tliat  idol,  tlie  '  Vshede  '  Kharlus,  has  crawled  into 
the  mud,  and  sits  there  .  .  ." 

"  Go  to  liim  at  the  pond,  if  you  are  so  curious." 

"  Yes;  but  what  if  he  should  kill  me?  " 

I  was  very  tired  of  Souvenir,  and  repented 

of   my    ill-judged    loquacity.  .  .  .  Zliitkoff,    to 

whom  he  communicated  my  story,  looked  at  the 

matter  in  a  somewhat  different  light. 

"  We  shall  have  to  appeal  to  the  police," — he 
said  decisively, — "  and,  possibly,  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  send  for  a  detachment  of  soldiers." 

His  presentiment  as  to  the  military  detachment 
did  not  come  to  pass, — but  something  remarkable 
really  did  happen. 


•jf 


28 


XXII 

Ix  the  middle  of  October,  three  weeks  after  my 
meeting  with  ^lartyn  Petrovitch,  I  was  standing 
at  the  window  of  my  chamber,  in  the  second 
storey  of  our  house,  and,  thinking  of  nothing  at 
all,  was  staring  dejectedly  into  the  yard,  and  at 
the  highway  which  ran  on  the  other  side  of  it. 
This  was  the  fifth  day  that  the  weather  had  been 
disgusting:  one  could  not  even  think  of  such  a 
thing  as  hunting.    Every  living  thing  had  taken 
to  cover ;  even  the  sparrows  had  become  mute,  and 
the  daws  had  long  since  disappeared.     The  wind 
was  alternately  howling  dully  and  whistling  in 
gusts:  the  low-hanging  sky,  without  a  chink  of 
light,  had  passed  over  from  a  disagreeable  white 
colour  to  a  leaden  and  still  more  ominous  hue, — 
and  the  rain,  which  had  been  pouring,  j^ouring 
down  pitilessly  and  incessantly,  suddenly  became 
heavier,  more  slanting, — and  dashed  against  the 
window-panes  with  a  shriek.     The  trees  were  all 
storm-tossed,  and  had  turned  a  sort  of  grey:  it 
seemed  as  though  everything  had  been  stripped 
from  them, — and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  tlie  wind 
would  begin  to  harry  them  again.     Everywhere 
stood  puddles  dioked  with  dead  leaves;  large  bub- 
bles,  constantly   breaking   and    forming   again, 

327 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

skipped  and  glided  across  them.  The  mire  in 
the  load  was  too  deep  to  wade  through;  the  cold 
penetratetl  my  chamber,  beneath  my  clothing, 
into  my  very  bones ;  an  involuntary  shiver  coursed 
over  my  body — and  into  what  an  evil  plight  did 
mv  soul  fall!  Precisely  that — evil,  not  melan- 
choly.  It  seemed  as  though  there  would  never 
be  any  more  sun,  or  brightness,  or  beauty  in  the 
world;  only  that  mire  and  slime,  and  grey  mois- 
ture, and  acrid  wetness — and  the  wind  would 
shriek  and  howd  forever!  So,  then,  I  was  stand- 
ing, in  a  thoughtful  sort  of  way,  at  the  window 
— and  I  remember :  a  sudden  darkness  descended, 
a  blue  gloom, — although  by  the  clock  it  was  only 
twelve.  All  at  once,  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  bear 
was  dashing  across  our  yard, — from  the  gate  to 
the  porch!  Xot  on  all  fours,  it  is  true,  but  such 
as  they  are  depicted  when  they  rear  up  on  their 
hind  paws.  I  did  not  believe  my  eyes.  And  even 
if  I  had  not  beheld  a  bear,  at  anv  rate  it  w^as  some- 
thing  huge,  black,  shaggy.  .  .  .  Before  I  had 
time  to  consider  what  it  might  be,  a  wild  shriek 
suddenly  rang  out  down-stairs.  It  seemed  as 
though  something  unexpected,  something  dread- 
ful had  forced  itself  into  our  house.  A  bustle 
arose,  a  running  to  and  fro 

I  briskly  descended  the  stairs,  and  ran  into  the 
dining-room.  .  .  . 

In  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  with  her 
face  toward  me,  stood  my  mother,   as  though 

328 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

rooted  to  the  spot ;  behind  her  several  frightened 
women's  faces  were  visible;  the  butler,  two  foot- 
men, and  a  page,  with  mouths  wide  open  from 
amazement,  had  crammed  themselves  into  the 
door  leading  into  the  anteroom;  and  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  dining-room,  covered  with  mud,  di- 
shevelled, tattered,  wet, — so  wet  that  steam  rose 
around  him,  and  the  water  ran  in  streams  across 
the  floor, — knelt,  swaying  heavily  to  and  fro,  and 
apparently  swooning,  that  same  monster  who 
had  dashed  across  the  yard  in  my  sight !  But  who 
was  that  monster?  Kharlofl"!  I  approached  from 
one  side,  and  beheld — not  his  face, — but  his  head, 
M'hich  he  had  clasped  in  his  hands,  all  plastered 
with  mud  as  it  was.  He  was  breathing  heavily, 
convulsively:  there  was  even  a  gurgling  in  his 
chest — and  the  only  point  which  could  be  clearly 
discerned  in  all  that  dark,  bespattered  mass  was 
the  tiny,  wildly  roving  whites  of  his  ej^es.  He 
Mas  frightful!  I  called  to  mind  the  dignitary 
M'hom  he  had  once  taken  up  short  for  comparing 
him  to  a  mastodon.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  pre- 
cisely such  must  have  been  the  aspect  of  an  ante- 
dihivian  animal  whicli  had  just  escaped  from 
anotlier  and  more  powerful  wild  beast  that  had 
attacked  him  in  the  midst  of  the  everlasting  and 
primeval  marshes. 

"  Martvn  Petrovitch!  " — exclaimed  my  mother 
at  last,  and  wrung  Iier  hands.     "  Is  it  thou!   Oh,  t 
merciful  J^ord  (iod!" 

321) 


A  KIXG  LEAR   OF  THE   STEPPES 

"  'T  is  I  ....  I  ..."  a  broken  voice  made 
itself  heard,  apparently  expelling  every  sound 
with  an  eifort  and  pain*     "  Okh!   'T  is  II  " 

"  But  what  ails  thee,  good  Lord  I  " 

"  Natiilya  Nikoliiv  .  «  .  .  .  na  .  .  .  .  I  have 
fled  to  you  ....  straight  from  home,  on 
foo  .  .  .  ot." 

"  In  this  mud!  But  thou  hast  not  the  sem- 
blance of  a  man.     Rise,  sit  down  at  least 

And  you," — she  said,  addressing  the  maids, — 
"  run  for  towels,  as  quickly  as  you  can.  And 
isn't  there  some  dry  clothing?" — she  asked  the 
butler. 

The  butler  signalled  with  his  hands,  as  much 
as  to  say, — where  is  anything  to  be  found  of  that 
size? — "  However,  I  can  bring  a  coverlet," — he 
said: — "  or  there  is  a  new  horse-cloth." 

"Come,  get  up,  get  up,  Martyn  Petrovitch; 
sit  down," — repeated  my  mother. 

"  They  have  driven  me  out,  madam," — moaned 
Kharloff ,  suddenly — and  he  threw  back  his  head, 
and  thrust  his  hands  out  in  front  of  him. 
"  They  have  turned  me  out,  Natalya  Niko- 
laevna!  My  own  daughters,  from  my  own 
home  .  .  ,  ." 

My  mother  cried  out : 

"  What  sayest  thou?  They  have  turned  thee 
out !  What  a  sin !  what  a  sin !  " —  ( She  crossed 
herself) — "Only  rise,  Martyn  Petrovitch,  for 
pity's  sake." 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

Two  maids  entered  with  towels,  and  stood  in 
front  of  KharlofF.  It  was  evident  that  they 
could  not  even  imagine  where  they  were  to  begin 
on  such  a  mass  of  mud.  "  They  have  turned  me 
out,  madam;  they  have  turned  me  out!  " — Khar- 
lofF kept  repeating  the  while.  The  butler  re- 
turned with  a  large  woollen  coverlet,  and  also 
halted  in  perplexity.  Souvenir's  head  was  thrust 
through  the  door,  then  vanished. 

"  Martyn  Petrovitch,  rise!  rise!  sit  down!  and 
tell  me  all  about  it,  in  its  proper  order," — com- 
manded my  mother,  in  a  tone  of  decision. 

Kharloff  half  rose  to  his  feet.  .  .  .  The  butler 
attempted  to  aid  him,  but  merely  soiled  his  hands,, 
and  shaking  his  fingers,  he  retreated  to  the  door. 
Waddling  and  reeling,  KharlofF  made  his  way 
to  a  chair,  and  sat  down.  The  maids  again  ap- 
proached him  with  the  towels,  but  he  waved  them 
aside  with  a  gesture,  and  refused  the  coverlet 
also.  And  my  mother  also  ceased  to  insist:  evi- 
dently, to  dry  KharlofF  was  an  impossibility; 
only  his  tracks  on  the  floor  were  hastily  wiped 

"P 


HfM 


XXIII 

"  How  did  they  come  to  turn  thee  out?  " — my 
mother  asked  KharlofF,  as  soon  as  he  had  some- 
what recovered  his  hreath. 

"JNIadam!  Xatalya  Nikolaevna!" — he  began, 
in  a  constrained  voice, — and  again  I  was  struck 
l)y  the  uneasy  roving  of  his  eyes, — "  I  will  tell 
you  the  truth :  1  myself  am  to  blame  most  of  all." 

"Precisely  so;  thou  wouldst  not  listen  to 
me," — said  my  mother,  sinking  into  an  arm-chair, 
/  and  lightly  waving  in  front  of  her  nose  her  per- 
fumed handkerchief:  the  stench  from  Kharloif 
was  excessive  ....  the  odour  is  not  so  strong  in 
a  forest  swamp. 

^'  Okh,  not  therein  lay  my  error,  madam,  but 
in  pride.  Pride  has  ruined  me,  just  as  it  did 
King  Nebuchadnezzar.  I  thought:  the  Lord 
God  has  not  been  unkind  to  me  in  the  matter  of 
brains ;  if  I  have  made  up  my  mind  about  a  thing, 
that  means  that  it  must  be  right.  .  .  .  But  in 
that  case  the  terror  of  death  seized  upon  me.  .  .  . 
I  went  astray  completely!  Says  I  to  myself,  I  '11 
show  my  power  and  my  will  for  the  last  time! 
I  '11  reward  them — and  thev  must  feel  sensible  of 

it   to  the  grave "      (Suddenly   Kharloff 

332 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

quivered  all  over.  .  .  .)  "They've  driven  me 
out  of  the  house,  like  a  cur !  That 's  their  grati- 
tude for  you!  " 

"  But  how  did  it  come  about," — mv  mother 
was  beginning  again 

"  They  took  my  page  ]Maxim  away  from  me," 
— KharlofF  interrupted  her  (his  eyes  continued 
to  rove,  he  held  both  hands  under  his  chin,  with 
locked  fingers) — "  they  took  away  my  equipage, 
they  cut  off  my  monthly  allowance,  they  did  not 
pay  me  the  stipulated  stipend, — they  docked  me 
all  round, — still  I  held  my  peace,  still  I  bore  it 
patiently!  And  the  reason  I  bore  it  patiently 
....  okh!  .  .  .  was  again  that  pride  of  mine  I 
So  that  my  enemies  might  not  be  able  to  say: 
See,  now,  the  old  fool  repents!  And  you,  also, 
madam,  forewarned  me :  '  Don't  bite  your  own 
nose  off,'  you  said, — so  I  bore  it  patiently.  .  .  . 
Only,  to-day  I  go  to  my  room — and  it  is  already 
occupied — and  they  had  flung  my  bed  out  into  the 
store-room !  '  Thou  mayest  sleep  there,'  said 
they :  '  we  endure  thee  out  of  charity,  anyway :  we 
need  thy  rooms  for  the  housekeeping,'  they  said. 
And  who  is  it  that  says  that  to  me!  Volodka  Slet- 
kin,  that  scoundrel,  that  dir " 

Kharloff's  voice  broke. 

"But  thy  daughters?  What  about  them?" — 
asked  my  motlier. 

"  ]}ut  I  contimied  to  ])c  j)atieiit,"' — KharlofT 
pursued  his  narrative: — "  it  was  bitter,  bitter  to 

3a3 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

me,  so  it  was,  and  inortil'yiiig  to  nie.  ...  I  did 
not  i'cv\  like  looking  at  Ciod's  world!  That  is 
why  1  would  not  come  to  you,  niatushka — be- 
cause  of  that  same  mortification,  of  shame!  For 
5^ou  see,  my  matushka,  1  tried  eyerything:  wheed- 
ling and  threatening;  and  1  exhorted  them,  and 
what  not  all  besides!  1  bowed  down  before 
them  ....  so  "  ( KharloiF  showed  how  he  had 
bowed.)  "  And  all  in  yain!  And  still  I  bore  it 
patiently!  At  the  start,  in  the  early  days  of  it, 
I  did  not  have  such  thoughts.  I  said  to  myself, 
I  '11  give  them  a  sound  thrashing,  I  '11  pitch  them 
all  out,  so  that  not  a  seed  of  them  shall  remain. 
...  I  '11  teach  them!  Well,  but,  later  on,  I— I 
submitted!  This  cross  has  been  sent  to  me,  I 
thought;  it  signifies  that  I  must  prepare  myself 
for  death.  And  all  of  a  sudden,  to-day,  I  'm 
treated  like  a  dog!  And  wdio  did  it?  Volodka! 
And  as  you  were  good  enough  to  inquire  about 
my  daughters, — why,  have  they  any  will  of  their 
own?    They  are  Volodka's  slaves!    Yes!" 

^ly  mother  was  amazed.  "  I  can  understand 
that  as  regards  Anna;  she  is  his  wife.  But  why 
does  thy  second " 

"  Evlampiya,  you  mean?  She's  worse  than 
Anna!  She  has  surrendered  herself  utterly  into 
Volodka's  hands.  And  that 's  the  reason,  too, 
why  she  refused  your  soldier.  At  his,  Volodka's 
command.  Anna — evidently — ought  to  feel  in- 
jured, and,  in  fact,  she  cannot  bear  her  sister — but 

334 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

she  submits!  He  has  bewitched  her,  the  accursed 
fellow!  And  then,  you  see,  it  must  be  pleasant 
for  her,  for  Anna,  to  think,  '  Here  art  thou,  Ev- 
lampiya,  who  wert  always  such  a  proud  creature, 
and  now  just  see  what  thou  hast  come  to! '  .  .  .  . 

0  .  .  .  .  okh,  okh!    MyGod,  mvGod!" 

^ly  mother  cast  a  perturbed  glance  at  me.  I 
withdrew  a  little  to  one  side,  by  way  of  precau- 
tion, lest  I  should  be  sent  out  of  the  room. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  ^lartyn  Petrovitch," — she 
began; — "that  my  former  nursling  should  have 
caused  you  pain,  and  should  have  turned  out  to 
be  so  bad  a  man;  but  I  was  deceived  in  him,  you 
see.  .  .  .  Who  could  have  expected  that  from 
him!" 

"  Madam," — groaned  KharlofF,  and  smote  his 
breast, — "  I  cannot  endure  the  ingratitude  of  my 
daughters.  I  cannot,  madam!  You  see,  I  gave 
up  ever}i;hing  to  them,  everything!  And  more- 
over, mv  conscience  has  tormented  me.  Manv 
things  .  .  .  okh!  .  .  .  many  things  have  I  pon- 
ered,  as  I  sat  by  the  pond,  and  fished!  '  If  thou 
Iiadst  but  done  any  good  to  any  one  in  thy  life! ' 

1  meditated: — *  given  to  the  poor,  set  the  serfs  at 
liberty,  perhaps,  because  they  had  been  eternally 
preyed  upon!  Surely,  thou  art  responsible  for 
them  in  the  sight  of  God !  Then  their  tears  would 
be  poured  out  for  thee!  But  what  is  their  lot 
now:  the  pit  was  deep  under  my  rule — why 
should   I   conceal  my  sin — but  now  its  bottom 

835 


A  KING  LEAK   OF  THE   STEPPES 

cannot  be  seen ! '  All  these  sins  have  1  taken  upon 
my  soul,  1  have  saerilieed  my  conscience  for  my 
children,  and  by  way  of  reward  they  scorn  me! 
They  have  kicked  me  out  of  the  house,  like  a 
dog!  " 

"  Stop  thinking  about  it,  Martyn  Petrovitch," 
remarked  my  mother. 

"  And  when  he  said  to  me,  that  Volodka  of 
yours," — resumed  KharlofF,  with  fresh  vigour, 
— "  when  he  said  to  me,  that  I  could  no  longer 
dwell  in  my  chamber, — and  I  had  set  every  beam 
of  that  chamber  in  place  with  my  own  hands, — 
when  he  told  me  that, — God  knows  what  came 
over  me  then!  My  head  got  confused,  a  knife 
seemed  to  cut  my  heart.  .  .  .  Well!  It  was  a 
choice  between  cutting  his  throat  and  rushing 

out  of  the  house! And  so  I  fled  to  you, 

my  benefactress,  Natalya  Nikolaevna  ....  And 
•where  was  I  to  lay  my  head  ?  And  it  was  raining, 
and  muddy  ....  I  think  I  must  have  fallen 
down  a  score  of  times!  And  now  ....  in  this 
horrible  condition  .,..." 

Kharloff  surveyed  himself  with  a  glance,  and 
fidgeted  about  on  his  chair,  as  though  he  were 
preparing  to  rise. 

"  Enough,  enough,  JNIartyn  Petrovitch,"  said 
my  mother,  hastily,  "  where  is  the  harm  in  that? 
Thou  hast  soiled  the  floor?  That  is  of  no  conse- 
quence whatever!  But  this  is  the  proposition 
which  I  have  to  make  to  thee.    Listen !  Thou  shalt 

336 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

now  be  conducted  to  a  private  room,  thou  shalt 
have  a  clean  bed — thou  art  to  undress  and  wash 
thyself,  then  lie  down  and  sleep " 

"  ^Matushka,  Xatalva  Xikolaevna!  I  can't 
sleep!  " — said  KharlofF,  mournfully.  "  It  seems 
as  though  hammers  were  beating  in  my  brain  I 
For,  like  a  useless  weed,  I  .  .  .  ." 

"  Lie  down,  sleep," — repeated  my  mother,  in- 
sistently. "  And  then  we  will  give  thee  tea — well, 
and  we  will  discuss  matters  with  thee.  Be  not 
cast  down,  my  old  friend!  If  thou  hast  been 
turned  out  of  thv  house,  thou  wilt  always  find  a 
refjige  in  mine.  .  .  .  For,  seest  thou,  I  have  not 
forgotten  that  thou  savedst  my  life." 

"  Mv  benefactress!"  moaned  Kharloff,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  "  Do  you  save 
me  now!  " 

This  appeal  moved  my  mother  almost  to  tears. 
"  I  am  ready  and  glad  to  aid  thee,  IMartyn  Petro- 
vitch,  in  every  way  that  is  within  my  power;  but 
thou  must  promise  me,  that  thou  wilt  obey  me 
in  future,  and  banish  from  thy  mind  all  unkind 
thoughts." 

KharlofF  removed  his  hands  from  his  face. 
"  If  necessary,"  lie  said,  "  I  can  even  forgive!" 

jNIy  mother  nodded  approvingly.  "  I  am  de- 
lighted to  see  tliat  tliou  art  in  such  a  truly  Chris- 
tian frame  of  mind,  Martvn  Petrovitch;  but  we 
will  talk  of  that  liereafter.  In  the  meanwhile, 
put  thyself  in  order,- — and,  chief  of  all,  sleep. 

337 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

Coiithict  Martyii  Petrovitch  to  tlie  green  study 
of  thv  deceased  master," — said  my  mother,  ad- 
dressing  the  hutler, — "  and  whatever  he  asks  for, 
give  it  to  him  on  the  instant!  Ciive  orders  that 
his  clothing  shall  he  dried  and  cleaned — and  ask 
the  housekeeper  for  whatever  linen  is  required — 
dost  hear  ? " 

"  I  ohey," — replied  the  hutler. 

"  And  when  he  wakes  up,  order  the  tailor  to 
take  his  measure;  and  his  heard  must  be  shaved. 
Xot  immediately,  but  later  on." 

"  I  obey," — repeated  the  butler.  "  Marty n 
Petrovitch, — be  so  good  .  .  ."  KharloiF  rose, 
looked  at  my  mother,  started  to  approach  her, 
but  halted,  made  her  a  bow  to  the  girdle,  crossed 
himself  thrice  before  the  holy  image, ^  and  fol- 
lowed the  butler.  I  slipped  out  of  the  room  in 
his  wake. 

'  It  is  customary  to  have  an  ikona,  or  holy  image  (picture).  Id 
dining-rooms  and  bedrooms.— Thanslator. 


338 


XXIV 

The  butler  conducted  Kharloff  to  the  green 
study,  and  immediately  ran  for  the  housekeeper, 
as  there  turned  out  to  be  no  linen  on  the  bed. 
Souvenir,  who  met  us  in  the  anteroom,  and 
skipped  into  the  study  with  us,  instantly  began, 
with  writhing  and  laughter,  to  hover  around 
Kharloff,  who  had  halted  in  a  brown  study,  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  with  his  arms  and  legs  some- 
what extended.  The  water  still  continued  to 
trickle  from  him. 

"The  Vshede!  The  Vshede  Kharlus!"— 
squeaked  Souvenir,  bending  double,  and  hold- 
ing on  to  his  sides.  "  Great  founder  of  the  fa- 
mous race  of  the  Kharloff  s,  look  upon  thy  de- 
scendant. Isn't  he  a  sight?  Canst  recognise 
him?  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Your  illustrious  highness,  al- 
low me  to  kiss  your  hand !  why  do  you  wear  black 
gloves?  " 

I  tried  to  stop  Souvenir,  but  it  was  of  no  use. 

"  He  called  me  a  parasite,  a  sluggard !  '  Thou 
hast  no  roof  of  thine  own,'  says  he.  But  now,  I 
ratlier  think,  he  has  become  just  such  another 
parasite  as  sinful  I!  Martyn  Petrovitch  is  just 
as  much  of  a  homeless  tramp  now  as  Souvenir! 

330 


A  KINC;  LEAK  OF  THE  STEPPES 

He,  also,  will  be  supported  by  gifts!  They  will 
take  the  eriist  of  disearded  bieail,  wliieh  the  dog 
sniffed  at  and  then  went  his  way  ....  as 
much  as  to  say — come  now,  eat  it!    lla-ha-ha! " 

Kharloff  still  stood  motioidess,  with  drooping 
head,  and  arms  and  legs  outstretched. 

"  IVIartyn  Kharloff,  hereditary  noble!"  pur- 
sued Souvenir,  shrilly.  "What  importance  he  has 
assumed,  oh  my,  phew!  'Don't  come  near  me,' 
says  he;  '  I  '11  do  you  an  injury! '  And  when  he, 
out  of  his  great  wisdom,  began  to  give  away  and 
portion  out  his  property — how  he  did  crow! 
'  Gratitude ! '  he  yells,  '  gratitude ! '  But  why 
did  he  insult  me?  Why  did  n't  he  give  me  some- 
thing? Possibly,  I  might  have  shown  more  feel- 
ing! And  the  best  of  it  is,  that  I  told  the  truth, 
that  they  w^ould  turn  him  out,  naked " 

"  Souvenir!  "  I  shouted;  but  Souvenir  did  not 
stop.  Still  Kharloff  did  not  move :  it  seemed  as 
though  he  had  only  just  begun  to  realise  how  wet 
everything  on  him  was,  and  was  waiting  to  have 
everything  taken  off  him.  But  the  butler  did 
not  return. 

"And  a  warrior,  to  boot!" — began  Souvenir 
again.  "  In  the  year  '12  he  saved  his  fatherland! 
he  displayed  his  bravery !  That 's  precisely  the 
point:  to  strip  the  measly  marauders  of  their 
breeches — that 's  quite  in  our  line ;  but  when  a 
hussy  stamps  her  foot  at  us,  our  own  soul  drops 

into  our  breeches " 

340 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

"  Souvenir!  " — I  cried  a  second  time. 

Kharloff  shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  Souvenir; 
up  to  that  moment,  he  had  not  even  noticed  his 
presence,  to  all  appearances,  and  only  my  excla- 
mation had  aroused  his  attention. 

"Look  out,  brother!" — he  bellowed  sullenly,) 
— "  don't  go  skipping  into  a  catastrophe!  " 

Souvenir  fairly  rolled  with  laughter.  "  Oldi, 
how  you  frightened  me,  most  respected  brother! 
how  terrible  vou  are,  really  now !  You  had  better 
comb  your  hair;  otherwise, — which  God  for- 
bid,— it  will  dry,  and  it  can't  be  washed  out 
afterward;  it  will  have  to  be  mowed  with  a 
scythe."  All  at  once.  Souvenir  waxed  angry. 
"  You  're  looking  consequential  again !  A  naked 
beggar,  yet  he  puts  on  big  airs!  Where's  your 
roof  now  ?  You  'd  better  tell  me ;  you  were  al- 
ways  bragging  of  it.  '  I  've  got  a  roof,'  says  he; 
but  now  thou  art  roofless!  '  ]My  roof  is  heredi- 
tary,' says  he."  (This  expression  had  struck 
Souvenir's  fancy.) 

"Mr.  Bvtchkoif,"  said  I.  "What  are  you 
doing!   Come  to  your  senses!  " 

But  he  continued  to  rattle  on,  and  kept 
skipping  and  darting  about  close  round  Khar- 
loff  And  still  the  butler  and  the  house- 
keeper did  not  come!  I  became  alarmed.  I  be- 
gan to  observe  that  KliarlcSiT ,  who,  in  the  course 
of  the  conversation  with  my  mother,  had  gradu- 
ally calmed  down,  and  even,  toward  the  end,  had, 

341 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

apparently,  become  reconciled  to  his  fate,  had 
again  begun  to  grow  excited;  he  was  breathing 
more  rapidly,  he  seemed  suddenly  to  swell  up 
under  the  ears,  his  fingers  began  to  twitch,  again 
his  eyes  began  to  roll  about  in  the  midst  of  the 
dark  mask  of  his  mud -begrimed  face 

"Souvenir!    Souvenir!"    I  cried.      "Stop!    I 
shall  tell  mamma." 

But  Souvenir  seemed  possessed  of  a  devil. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  most  respected !  " — he  snarled 
again, — "  just  see  in  what  subtle  circumstances 
you  and  I  now  find  ourselves!  And  your  daugh- 
ters, with  your  son-in-law,  Vladimir  Vasilievitch, 
are  laughing  their  fill  at  you  under  your  roof! 
And  5^ou  might,  at  least,  have  cursed  them,  ac- 
cording to  your  promise !  But  you  were  n't  equal 
even  to  that  much !  And  vou  're  no  match  for 
Vladimir  Vasilievitch,  anyway!  And  you  have 
called  him  Volodka,  into  the  bargain!  How  is  he 
Volodka  ^  to  you?  He  is  Vladimir  Vasilievitch, 
Mr.  Sletkin,  landed  proprietor,  a  gentleman, — 
and  as  for  thee — what  art  thou?  " 

A  fierce  roar  drowned  Souvenir's  speech.  .  . 
Kharloff  had  exploded.  His  fists  clenched  them- 
selves and  rose  aloft,  his  face  turned  blue,  foam 
made  its  appearance  on  his  chapped  lips,  he  quiv- 
ered with  rage.  "  Roof,  sayest  thou!  "  he  thun- 
dered   with    his    iron    voice, — "a    curse!    sayest 

^  Meaning,  "dirty,  miserable  little  Vladimir."  The  diminutive  in 
ka  almost  always  expresses  contempt:  hence  the  two  forms  used  in 
this  story  at  different  points— F«/wZya  and  Fo^odA'a.  — Translator. 

342 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

thou Xo!  I  will  not  curse  them 

Much  tliey  care  for  that!  But  the  roof  .  .  .  . 
I  "11  destroy  their  roof,  and  thev  shall  have  no 
roof,  any  more  than  I  have!  They  shall  learn 
to  know  ^Nlartvn  Kharloff !  ]Mv  strength  has  not 
vanished  vet!  I  '11  teach  them  to  jeer  at  me!  .  .  . 
They  shall  have  no  roof!" 

I  was  dumfounded;  never  in  my  life  had  I 
been  witness  to  such  boundless  wrath.  It  was 
not  a  hvnnan  being — but  a  fierce  m  ild  beast  which 
was  ramping  about  in  front  of  me!  I  w^as 
stunned  ....  but  Souvenir, — crawled  under 
the  table  in  affright. 

"They  shall  have  none!" — shouted  KharlofF 
for  the  last  time,  and  almost  upsetting  the  house- 
keeper and  butler,  who  entered  at  that  moment, 

he  rushed  out  of  the  house He  dashed 

headlong  through  the  yard,  and  disappeared  be-= 
yond  the  gate. 


343 


XXV 

My  mother  was  frightfully  angry  when  the 
butler  came,  with  troubled  countenance,  to  an- 
nounce jNIartyn  Petrovitch's  new  and  sudden  de- 
parture. He  dared  not  conceal  from  her  the 
cause  of  that  departure:  I  was  compelled  to 
confirm  his  statements.  "  So  it  is  all  thy  fault!  " 
— shrieked  my  mother  at  Souvenir,  who  started 
to  run  forward  like  a  hare,  and  even  kissed  her 
hand: — "thine  abominable  tongue  is  to  blame 
for  it  all!  " — "  Good  gracious!  I  '11  immejutly, 
immejutly  ,  .  .  ."  lisped  Souvenir,  stammering 
and  jerking  his  elbows  behind  his  back 

"  '  Immejutly immejutly  .   .   .   .' — I 

know  all  about  thy  '  immejutly  '  !  "  repeated  my 
mother,  reproachfully,  and  sent  him  out  of  the 
room.  Then  she  rang  the  bell,  commanded  that 
Kvitzinsky  should  be  summoned,  and  gave  him 
her  orders:  to  set  out  without  delay  for  Es'kovo 
in  her  equipage,  hunt  up  Martyn  Petrovitch,  at 
any  cost,  and  bring  him  back.  "  Don't  present 
yourself  before  me  without  him!" — she  said  in 
conclusion.  The  grim-visaged  Pole  bowed  si- 
lently, and  withdrew. 

I  returned  to  my  own  room,  seated  myself  by 

'M4s 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

the  window  again,  and  meditated  long  on  what 
had  taken  place  before  my  eyes.  I  was  bewil- 
dered; I  could  not  possibly  understand  why 
KharlofF,  who  had  endured,  almost  without  re- 
monstrance, the  insult  dealt  him  by  the  members 
of  his  household,  had  not  been  able  to  control 
himself,  and  had  failed  to  endure  the  jeers  and 
taunts  of  such  an  insignificant  creature  as  Souve- 
nir. I  did  not  then  know  what  intolerable  bit- 
terness may  be  contained,  sometimes,  in  an 
empty  reproach,  even  when  it  proceeds  from  con- 
temptible   lips The    hated    name    of 

Sletkin,  uttered  by  Souvenir,  had  fallen  like  a 
spark  in  powder ;  the  sore  spot  had  not  been  able 
to  bear  this  last  sting. 

About  an  hour  elapsed.  Our  calash  drove  into 
the  yard;  but  in  it  sat  our  steward  alone.  Yet 
my  mother  had  said  to  him:  "Do  not  present 
yourself  without  him!''  Kvitzinsky  sprang  has- 
tily from  the  carriage,  and  ran  up  the  steps. 
His  face  wore  a  perturbed  aspect, — a  thing 
which  hardly  ever  happened  with  him.  I  imme- 
diately went  down-stairs,  and  followed  on  his 
heels  into  the  drawing-room. 

"Well?  have  you  brought  him?" — asked  my 
mother. 

"  No," — replied  Kvitzinsky, — "  and  I  could 
not  bring  him." 

"  Why  so?   did  you  see  him?  " 

"  Yes." 

345 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

"  AVluit  has  hapi)ened  to  him?    A  stroke  of 

apoplexy? " 

"  Not  at  all;  nothing  has  happened  to  him." 

"  Then  why  have  not  you  brought  him?  " 

"  He  is  destroying  his  house." 

"What?" 

"  He  is  standing  on  the  roof  of  the  new  wing 
— and  destroying  it.  Forty  or  more  of  the 
planks,  I  should  say,  have  already  flown  off." 
("  They  shall  have  no  roof! "  KharlofF's  words 
recurred  to  my  mind.) 

My  mother  stared  at  Kvitzinsky.  "  He  is 
standing  ....  alone  ...  on  the  roof,  and 
tearing  it  to  pieces?" 

"  Precisely  so,  madam.  He  is  walking  along 
the  planking  on  the  roof -tree,  and  breaking  down 
on  the  right  and  the  left.  His  strength  is  super- 
natural, as  you  know !  Well,  and  the  roof,  to  tell 
the  truth,  is  a  miserable  one:  it  is  laid  with  gaps,^ 
it  is  nailed  on  with  the  thinnest  sort  of  upper 
boards,  two-and-a-quarter-inch  nails." 

My  mother  glanced  at  me,  as  though  to  assure 
herself  whether  she  had  not,  in  some  way,  heard 
wrongly.  "  Thin  boards  with  spaces," — she  re- 
peated, evidently  not  understanding  the  mean- 
ing of  a  single  one  of  these  words 

1  That  is,  when  between  every  pair  of  planks  an  open  space  is  left, 
covered  over  on  top  with  another  plank :  such  a  roof  is  cheaper,  but 
less  durable.  The  thinnest  upper  boards  are  half  a  vershok  in  thick- 
ness, the  ordinary  board  being  three-quarters  of  a  versh6k.  (Th« 
vcrshdk  is  one  and  three-quarter  inches.) — Author's  Note. 

34G 


A  KING   LEAR   OF   THE   STEPPES 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  want  ?  " — she  sai'd  at 
last. 

"  I  am  come  for  instructions.  Without  men 
to  help,  nothing  can  be  done.  The  peasants  there 
have  all  hidden  themselves  with  fright." 

"  And  his  daughters — what  of  them.'  " 

"  His  daughters  are  all  right.  They  are  rush- 
ing about  at  random  ....  shrieking  .  .  .  But 
what  good  does  that  do  .'^  " 

"  And  is  Sletkin  there?" 

"  Yes,  he  's  there  also.  He  's  yelling  the  worst 
of  all — but  he  can  do  nothing." 

"  And  Martyn  Petrovitch  is  standing  on  the 
roof.'" 

"  Yes — on  the  roof  .  .  .  that  is  to  say,  in  the 
garret,  and  is  destroying  the  roof." 

"  Yes,  yes," — said  my  mother, — "  the  thin 
boards.   .   .   ." 

Evidently,  an  unusual  case  had  presented  it- 
self. 

What  was  to  be  done.'*  Send  to  town  for  the 
chief  of  the  rural  police — assemble  the  peasants  ? 
Mv  mother  was  utterlv  at  a  loss. 

Zhitkoff,  who  had  come  to  dinner,  was  equally 
at  a  loss.  Truth  to  tell,  he  again  made  mention 
of  his  militarv  command,  but  he  offered  no  ad- 
vice,  and  only  wore  a  submissive  and  devoted 
air.  Kvitzinsky,  perceiving  that  he  would  get 
no  instruf^tions,  announced  to  mv  mother,  witli 
the  scornful  respect  peculiar  to  him,  that  if  she 

347 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

would  permit  him  to  take  several  of  the  stable- 
men, gardeners,  and  other  house-serfs,  he  would 
make  an  efi'ort 

"  Yes,  yes," — my  mother  interrupted  him, — 
"  do  make  an  effort,  my  dear  Vikenty  Osipiteh! 
Only,  be  quick  about  it,  pray,  and  I  will  assume 
all  the  responsibility!" 

Kvitzinsky  smiled  frigidly.  "  Allow  me  to 
explain  one  thing  to  you  in  advance,  madam:  it 
is  impossible  to  answer  for  the  results,  for  Mr. 
I\  harloff 's  strength  is  great,  and  so  is  his  despair : 
he  considers  himself  greatly  wronged!  " 

"Yes,  yes," — assented  my  mother: — "and 
that  abominable  Souvenir  is  to  blame  for  all!  I 
shall  never  forgive  him  for  this.  Go,  take  men 
with  you,  proceed,  Vikenty  Osipiteh!  " 

"  Take  as  many  ropes  as  possible,  Mr.  Man- 
ager,— and  fire-hooks," — said  Zhitkoff  in  his  bass 
voice, — "  and  if  you  have  a  net, — it  would  n't  be 
a  bad  thing  to  take  that  also.  Now  once  upon  a 
time,  in  our  regiment " 

"  Be  so  good  as  not  to  instruct  me,  my  dear 
sir," — interrupted  Kvitzinsky,  with  vexation: 
"  I  know  what  is  required,  without  any  sugges- 
tions from  you." 

Zliitkoff  took  offence,  and  remarked  that  as 
he  assumed  that  he  also  was  bidden  .  .  . 

"  No,  no," — interposed  my  mother.  "  Thou 
hadst  better  stay  here.  .  .  Vikenty  Osipiteh  will 
act  alone.  .  ,  .  Go,  Vikenty  Osipiteh!" 

348 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

ZliitkofF  was  more  angry  than  before,  but 
Kvitzinsky  bowed  and  left  the  room. 

I  flew  to  the  stable,  hastily  saddled  my  horse 
with  my  own  hands,  and  set  off  at  a  gallop  on 
the  road  to  Es'koyo. 


349 


XXVI 

The  rain  had  ceased;  but  the  wmd  was  blowing 
with  redoubled  violence — straight  in  my  face. 
Half  way  on  my  road,  my  saddle  came  near 
turning  with  me:  the  girth  had  loosened:  I 
alighted,  and  set  to  dragging  at  the  strap  with 

mv  teeth All  at  once,  I  heard  some  one 

calling  me  by  name.  .  .  Souvenir  was  running 
toward  me  over  the  grass.  .  "  Well,  little  fa- 
ther,"— he  shouted  at  me,  while  still  afar  off, — 
"has  curiosity  conquered  you?  Well,  you 
could  n't    help    yourself.  .  .  And    I  'm    going 

thither  also,  straight,  on  Kharloff 's  tracks 

Why,  you  '11  never  see  such  a  sight  again  in  all 
your  lif e !  " 

"  You  want  to  admire  the  work  of  your 
hands," — I  said  indignantly,  sprang  on  my 
horse,  and  set  off  again  at  a  gallop;  but  the  in- 
defatigable Souvenir  did  not  leave  me,  and  even 
shouted  with  laughter  and  writhed  as  he  ran. 
And  here,  at  last,  was  Es'kovo,  here  was  the 
dam, — and  yonder  were  the  long  wattled  fence 
and  the  willows  of  the  manor.  .  .  I  rode  up  to 
the  gate,  alighted,  and  tied  my  horse;  and  stood 
stock-still  in  amazement. 

;>.)0 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

Of  the  front  third  of  the  roof,  on  the  new  wing 
of  the  mezzanine,  only  the  skeleton  remained, 
the  shingles  and  sheathing-boards  lay  in  form- 
less heaps  upon  the  ground,  on  both  sides  of  the 
wing.  Admitting  that  the  roof  had  been,  ac- 
cording to  Kvitzinsky's  expression,  a  paltry  one; 
nevertheless,  the  thing  was  incredible.  On  the 
planking  of  the  loft,  stirring  up  dust  and  rub- 
bish, a  blackish-grey  mass  was  moving  about 
with  climisy  agility,  and  now  shaking  loose  the 
remaining  chimney,  built  of  bricks  (the  other 
had  already  fallen),  now  ripping  off  a  board, 
and  hurling  it  down,  now  clutching  at  the  very 
rafters  themselves.  It  was  Kharloff.  He 
seemed  to  me  then  a  perfect  bear:  his  head,  and 
his  back,  and  his  shoulders  were  those  of  a  bear, 
and  he  planted  his  legs  wide  apart,  without  bend- 
ing the  bottom  of  his  feet,  just  as  a  bear  does. 
The  keen  wind  was  blowing  a  gale  around  him 
on  every  side,  lifting  his  matted  hair;  it  was  ter- 
rible to  see,  his  naked  body  gleaming  red  through 
the  rents  in  his  tattered  raiment:  it  was  terrible 
to  hear  his  fierce,  hoarse  muttering.  The  yard 
was  filled  with  people:  peasant  women,  dirty 
little  boys,  housemaids  were  ranged  along  the 
fence;  a  few  peasant  men  had  clustered  together 
in  a  separate  group  at  a  distance.  The  old  priest, 
whom  I  knew,  was  standing  liatless  on  the  steps 
of  the  other  wing,  and  clas})ing  a  brass  cross  in 
both    hands,    silently    and    hopelessly    raised    it 

351 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

aloft,  from  time  to  time,  and  seemed  to  be  show- 
ing it  to  Kharloff.  By  the  priest's  side  stood  Ev- 
himpiya,  and  with  her  back  propped  against  the 
wall,  she  gazed  immovably  at  her  father;  Anna 
now  thrust  her  head  out  of  the  little  window, 
again  she  vanished,  now  she  ran  out  into  the 
j^ard,  again  she  went  back  into  the  house;  Slet- 
kin,  all  pale,  sallow,  in  an  old  dressing-gown  and 
a  skull-cajj,  with  a  single-barrelled  gun  in  his 
hands,  was  running  back  and  forth,  with  short 
/  steps.  He  had  become  a  thorough-going  Jew,"^ 
\  as  the  expression  is:  he  panted,  and  threatened, 
shook  himself,  took  aim  at  KharlofF,  then  flung 
his  gun  on  his  shoulder,  again  took  aim,  shouted, 
wept.  .  .  .  On  catching  sight  of  me  and  Souve- 
nir, he  fairly  hurled  himself  at  us. 

"  Look,  look,  what  is  going  on  yonder! " — ^he 
squeaked, — "look!  He  has  gone  crazy,  he  has 
got  into  a  fury  ....  and  see  what  he  is  doing! 
I  have  sent  for  the  police, — but  no  one  comes! 
No  one  comes!  If  I  were  to  shoot  him,  the  law 
could  not  call  me  to  account,  because  every  man 
has  a  right  to  defend  his  property!  And  I  will 
shoot!  ...  By  God,  I  '11  shoot!" 

He  ran  toward  the  house. 

"  Marty n  Petrovitch,  beware!  If  you  don't 
come  down,  I  '11  shoot!  " 

"  Shoot  away!  " — rang  out  a  hoarse  voice  from 
the  roof.  "  Shoot  away!  And  meanwhile,  here  's 
a  gift  for  thee! " 

^.52 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

A  long  board  flew  down  from  above — and 
turning  a  couple  of  times  in  the  air,  crashed  to 
the  ground  directly  at  Sletkin's  feet.  The  latter 
fairly  leaped  into  the  air,  and  KharlofF  burst  into 
a  loud  laugh. 

"Oh,  Lord  Jesus!" — faltered  some  one  be- 
hind my  back. 

I  glanced  round:  it  was  Souvenir.  "  Ah!"  I 
thought;  "he  has  stopped  laughing  now!" 

Sletkin  seized  by  the  collar  a  peasant  who 
stood  near. 

"  Come,  climb  up,  climb  up,  climb  up,  you 
devils!  "  he  yelled,  shaking  him  with  all  his  might 
— "  save  my  property!  " 

The  peasant  took  a  couple  of  steps,  flung  back 
liis  head,  waved  his  hands,  shouted:  "  Hey!  you! 
sir!" — stamped  up  and  down  a  bit  where  he 
stood,  and  round  about  face. 

"  A  ladder!  fetch  a  ladder!  "—Sletkin  shouted 
at  the  remaining  peasants. 

"And  where  are  we  to  get  it?" — resounded 
in  reply. 

"  And  even  if  there  were  a  ladder," — re- 
marked one  voice,  in  a  leisurely  way, — "  who 
wants  to  climb  up  there?  You  must  think  we 
are  fools!  He  'd  wring  thy  neck — in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye! " 

"  He  'd  kill  him  dVectly  "—said  one  young, 
fair-haired  fellow  with  a  very  evil  face. 

"And    why   shouldn't   he?" — chimed    in   the 

353 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

rest.  It  seemed  to  me,  that  even  had  there  been 
no  self-evident  danger,  still  the  peasants  would 
not  willingly  have  obeyed  the  orders  of  their  new 
master.  They  all  but  encouraged  KharlofF — 
although  he  had  surprised  them. 

"  Akh,  you  bandits!  "  groaned  Sletkin,  "  I  '11 
give  it  to  you  all.  .  .  ." 

But  at  this  point  the  last  chimney  came  down 
with  a  crash,  and  in  the  midst  of  clouds  of  yellow 
dust  which  arose  for  a  moment,  KharlofF,  emit- 
ting a  piercing  yell,  and  raising  his  blood-stained 
hands  aloft,  turned  his  face  toward  us.  Again 
Sletkin  took  aim  at  him. 

Evlampiya  pulled  him  back  by  the  elbow. 

"  Don't  meddle!  "  he  vented  his  wrath  fiercely 
on  her. 

"And   as   for  thee — don't   dare!" — said   she; 
— and  her  blue  eyes   flashed  menacingly  from 
beneath  her  knitted  brows.     "  My  father  is  de- 
\       stroying  his  own  house.     It 's  his  property." 

"  Thou  liest:  it  is  ours!  " 

"Thou  sayest:  'it  is  ours:' — but  I  say  'tis 
his." 

Sletkin  hissed  with  rage;  Evlampiya  fairly 
bored  her  eyes  into  his  face. 

"  Ah,  how  d'  ye  do!  how  d'  ye  do!  my  amiable 
daughter!  " — thundered  Kharloff  from  on  hign. 
"Good-morning,  Evlampiya  Martynovna!  How 
dost  thou  get  along  wn'th  thy  friend? — Do  you 
kiss  and  fondle  each  other  nicely?  " 

854 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

"Father!" — rang  out  Evlampiya's  resonant 
voice. 

"What,  dear  daughter?" — replied  Kharloff, 
and  moved  forward  to  the  very  brink  of  the  wall. 
So  far  as  could  be  seen,  a  strange  grin  had  made 
its  appearance  on  his  face — a  bright,  cheery, 
and,  precisely  for  that  reason,  peculiarly  dread- 
ful grin jNIany  years   afterward,   I   saw 

exactly  that  same  sort  of  grin  on  the  face  of  a 
man  condemned  to  death. 

"  Stop,  father;  come  down!  "  (Evlampiya  did 
not  call  him  "  batiushka  " — dear  little  father.) 
"  We  are  guilty ;  we  will  give  thee  back  every- 
thing.   Come  down." 

"  And  why  art  thou  making  arrangements 
for  us?" — put  in  Sletkin.  Evlampiya  merely 
contracted  her  brows  still  more. 

"  I  will  restore  to  thee  my  portion — I  will  give 
thee  everything.  Stop;  come  down,  father! 
Forgive  us;  forgive  me!  " 

Still  KIiarlofF  went  on  grinning.  "  Too  late, 
my  dear  little  dove," — said  he,  and  every  word 
of  his  had  the  ring  of  brass.  "  Thy  stony  soul 
has  stirred  too  late!  The  ball  has  started  to  roll 
down  hill — tliou  canst  not  stop  it  now!  And  thou 
needst  not  look  at  me!  I 'm  a  doomed  man! 
Eook  rather  at  thv  Volodka:  see  what  a  beauty 
thou  hast  sought  out  for  thyself!  And  look  at 
thy  viper  of  a  sister:  yonder  she  is  sticking  her 
foxy  nose  out  of  tlie  window,  yonder  she  is  egg- 

3.5."^ 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

ing  her  nice  little  husband  on!  No,  my  dear 
young  madams !  You  have  wanted  to  deprive  me 
of  a  roof — therefore  I  will  not  leave  you  one 
beam  upon  another!  Witli  my  own  hands  I 
placed  them,  with  my  own  hands  I  will  destroy 
— just  as  I  am,  with  my  hands  alone!  See,  I  have 
not  taken  an  axe!  " 

He  spat  on  both  his  palms,  and  again  grasped 
the  rafters. 

"  Enough,  father," — Evlampiya  was  saying 
in  the  meanwhile,  and  her  voice,  somehow, 
grew  wonderfully  caressing, — "  forget  the  past. 
Come,  believe  me;  thou  hast  always  trusted  me. 
Do  come  down ;  come  to  my  chamber,  to  my  soft 
bed.  I  will  dry  thee,  and  warm  thee ;  I  will  bind 
up  thy  wounds,  for  thou  hast  flayed  thy  hands. 
Thou  shalt  live  with  me  as  though  thou  wert  in 
Christ's  bosom,  eat  sweetly,  and  sleep  still  more 
sweetly.  Come,  we  have  been  to  blame,  well,  and 
we  have  grown  arrogant,  we  have  sinned;  come, 
forgive! " 

KharlofF  shook  his  head.  "  Jabber  away!  As 
though  I  would  believe  you!  You  have  killed 
belief  within  me !  You  have  killed  everything !  I 
was  an  eagle — and  made  myself  a  worm  for  you 

and    you — mean    to    crush    the    worm? 

Enough  of  that !  I  loved  thee,  thou  knowest  it, — 
but  now  thou  art  not  my  daughter — and  I  am 
not  thv  father  .  .  .  I  'm  a  doomed  man!  Don't 
interfere!  And  as  for  thee,  fire  away,  thou  cow- 

356 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

ard,  woe-hero!"  bellowed  KharlofF  suddenly  at 
Sletkin.  "  Why  dost  thou  keep  taking  aim? 
Hast  thou  called  to  mind  the  law:  if  he  that  has 
received  a  gift  shall  be  guilty  of  an  attempt  on 
the  life  of  the  giver," — said  KharlofF,  pausing 
between  the  words, — "  then  the  giver  has  a  right 
to  demand  the  return  of  everything?  Ha,  ha, — 
have  no  fear,  thou  man  versed  in  law !  I  shall  not 
demand  it — I  shall  finish  it  all  myself.  .  .  Here 
goes! 

"  Father!  "  implored  Evlampiya,  for  the  last 
time. 

"Hold  thy  tongue!" 

"  ^lartyn    Petrovitch,    brother,    be    magnani- 
mous, forgive!  " — faltered  Souvenir. 

"  Father,  darling! " 
/-  "  Silence,  bitch !  "—yelled  KharlofF.     He  did 
not  even  look  at  Souvenir — but  merely  spat  in 
his  direction. 


3.57 


XXVII 

At  that  moment,  Kvitzinsky  with  his  whole 
squad — in  three  peasant  carts — made  his  appear- 
ance at  the  gate.  The  weary  horses  snorted,  the 
men,  one  after  another,  sprang  out  into  the  mud. 

"Ehe!"  shouted  KharlofF,  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  "An  army,  there  it  is,  an  army!  They 
are  setting  in  array  a  whole  army  against  me. 
Very  good!  Only,  I  give  you  warning,  that  if 
any  one  comes  hither  to  me  on  the  roof — I  '11 
pitch  him  down  head  over  heels!  I  'm  a  surly 
host,  I  don't  like  untimely  guests!  So  there, 
now!" 

He  clutched  the  front  pair  of  rafters  in  both 
hands,  the  so-called  "  legs  "  of  the  pediment, — 
and  began  to  rock  them  to  and  fro  violently. 
Hanging  from  the  edge  of  the  planking,  he  drew 
them  after  him,  as  it  were,  chanting  in  measured 
rhythm,  stevedore  fashion:  "Heave-ho!  heave- 
ho!  ukh!" 

Sletkin  ran  to  Kvitzinsky,  and  began  to  com- 
plain and  to  whimper.  .  .  .  The  latter  requested 
him  "  not  to  meddle,"  and  proceeded  to  put  in 
execution  the  plan  which  he  had  formed.  He 
himself  took  up  his  stand  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  began  by  way  of  creating  a  diversion,  to  ex- 

358 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

plain  to  Kharloff  that  what  he  was  about  was 
not  a  deed  worthy  of  a  nobleman 

"Heave-ho!  heave-ho!" — chanted   KhaiiofF. 

....  That  Xatalya  Xikolaevna  was  very 
much  displeased  with  him,  and  had  not  expected 
this  of  him 

"Heave-ho!  heave-ho!  ukh!" — chanted  Khar- 
loff;— and,  in  the  meantime,  Kvitzinsky  had  de- 
tailed four  of  the  most  robust  and  daring  of  the 
stablemen  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  house,  with 
the  object  of  having  them  mount  to  the  roof  from 
behind.  But  the  plan  of  attack  did  not  escape 
Kharloif's  notice;  he  suddenly  abandoned  the 
rafters,  and  ran  nimbly  to  the  rear  part  of  the 
mezzanine.  His  aspect  was  so  terrifying,  that 
two  stablemen,  who  had  already  succeeded  in  as- 
cending  to  tlie  garret,  instantly  slid  back  to  the 
ground  by  the  water-spout,  to  the  no  small  satis- 
faction and  even  laughter  of  the  little  boys  of 
the  house-servants.  KharlofF  shook  his  fist  after 
them,  and  returning  to  the  front  portion  of  the 
house,  he  again  seized  hold  of  the  rafters,  and 
again  began  to  rock  tliem,  again  chanting,  in 
stevedore  style. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  looked  about 
him.   .  . 

"  Maxi'muslika,  friend!  comrade!"  he  cried: 
"  do  I  behold  thee?  " 

I   glanced   round In   fact,   Maxfmka, 

the  page,  had  detached  himself  from  tlie  throng 

3j9 


A  KIXC;  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

of  peasants,  and  smirking  and  displaying  his 
teeth  in  a  grin,  had  stepped  forward.  His  mas- 
ter, the  saddler,  had  probahly  allowed  liim  to 
return  home  for  a  brief  visit. 

"  Climb  up  here  to  me,  Maximushka,  my  faith- 
ful servant," — went  on  KharlofF; — "  we  will 
together  ward  off  the  savage  Tatar  folk,  the 
Lithuanian  thieves!" 

INIaximka,  still  grinning,  instantly  climbed  to 
the  roof.  .  But  he  was  seized  and  dragged  back 
— God  knows  why — perhaps  by  way  of  example 
for  the  rest ;  he  could  not  have  rendered  much  aid 
to  JNIartyn  Petrovitch. 

"Well,  very  good!  All  right!" — articulated 
KharlofF  in  a  menacing  voice,  and  again  set  to 
work  at  the  rafters. 

"  Vikenty  Osipovitch!  with  your  permission, 
I  will  shoot !  " — said  Sletkin  to  Kvitzinsky ; 
— "  you  see,  my  gun  is  loaded  with  bird-shot, 
chiefly  by  way  of  frightening  him."  But  before 
Kvitzinsky  could  answ^er  him,  the  foremost  pair 
of  rafters,  vigorously  shaken  by  the  iron  hands 
of  Kharloff,  heeled  over,  cracked,  and  fell  into 
the  yard — and  with  them,  being  unable  to  hold 
himself  back,  fell  Kharloff  himself,  and  crashed 
heavily  on  the  ground.  All  shuddered,  cried 
out.  .  .  Kharloff  lay  motionless,  and  against  his 
back  rested  lengthwise  the  upper  beam  of  the 
roof,  the  roof -tree,  which  had  followed  the  fall- 
ing pediment. 

360 


XXVIII 

The  people  rushed  to  Kharloff,  dragged  the 
beam  awav  from  him,  turned  hhn  over  on  his 
back;  his  face  was  hfeless,  there  was  blood  about 
his  mouth ;  he  was  not  breathing.  "  The  spirit\ 
is  knocked  out  of  him," — muttered  the  peasants 
who  had  stepped  forward.  They  ran  to  the  well 
for  water,  they  brought  a  whole  bucketful,  and 
drenched  Kharloff' s  head :  the  mud  and  dust  left 
his  face,  but  its  lifeless  aspect  remained  as  be- 
fore. They  dragged  up  a  bench,  placed  it  close 
against  the  wing,  and  with  difficulty  lifting  ]\Iar- 
tyn  Petrovitch's  huge  body,  they  placed  it  upon 
the  bench,  with  his  head  leaning  against  the  wall. 
The  page  ]Maximka  approached,  knelt  down  on 
one  knee,  and  thrusting  the  other  leg  far  out, 
supported  the  arm  of  his  former  master  in  a  the- 
atrical sort  of  way.  Evlampiya,  pale  as  death 
itself,  stood  directly  in  front  of  her  father,  with 
her  huge  eves  riveted  immovablv  on  him.  Anna 
and  Sletkin  did  not  come  near.  All  maintained 
silence,  all  waited  for  something  or  other.  At 
last,  broken,  throbbing  sounds  became  audible  in 
Kharl()f!"s  tliroat — as  thougli  he  were  choking. 
.  .  .  Tlien  lie  feebly  moved  one  liand — the 
right  one  (Maximka  was  holding  the  left), 
opened  one  eye, — the  right, — and  slowly  gazing 

301 


A  KING  LEAK   OF  THE   STEPPES 

arouiul  him,  as  though  (h'link  with  some  terrible 
sort  of  intoxication,  lie  groaned, — articulated,  in- 
distinctly:— "  I     am     in  ...  .    iured " 

And  then  he  added,  as  though  after  a  brief  re- 
flection : — "  this  is  it  ...  .  the  bla  .  .  .  ack 
CO  ...  .  olt!" 

The  blood  suddenly  welled  in  a  thick  torrent 
from  his  mouth — his  whole  body  quivered 

"  It  is  the  end!  "   I  thought But  again 

KharlcSfF  opened  one  eye, — it  was  still  the  right 
one  (the  left  eyelid  did  not  move,  any  more  than 
that  of  a  corpse ) , — and  fixing  it  on  Evlampiya, 
he  articulated,  in  a  barely  audible  tone: 

"  Well,  daugh  ....  ter,  I  do  not  for " 

Kvitzinsky,  with  a  sharp  gesture,  called  up  the 
priest,  who  was  still  standing  on  the  steps  of  the 
wing.  .  .  .  The  old  man  drew  near,  entangling 
his  weak  knees  in  his  narrow  cassock.  But  all 
at  once,  KharlofF's  legs  twitched  in  a  horrible 
manner,  and  so  did  his  trunk;  athwart  his  face, 
from  below  upward,  coursed  a  nervous  convul- 
sion— and  Evlampiya's  face  was  distorted  in 
precisely  the  same  manner.  Maximka  began  to 
cross  himself.  ...  I  was  horrified,  I  ran  to  the 
gate,  and  leaned  my  breast  against  it,  without 
glancing  round.  A  minute  later,  a  soft  murmur 
broke  from  all  the  mouths  behind  me — and  I 
understood  that  Martyn  Petrovitch  was  dead. 

The  roof -tree  had  broken  the  nape  of  his  neck, 
and  he  had  smashed  in  his  breast  himself,  as  was 
proved  at  the  autopsy. 

S62 


XXIX 

"  What  was  it  that  he  tried  to  say  to  her,  as  he 
was  dying?  "  I  asked  myself,  as  I  rode  homeward 
on  mv  trotter;  "  '  I  do  not  curse  thee? '  or  '  I  do 
not  for  ....  give  thee? '  "  ^  The  rain  was 
again  pouring  down,  but  I  rode  at  a  foot-pace, 
I  wished  to  remain  alone  as  long  as  possible, — I 
wished  to  give  myself  up  to  my  meditations. 
Souvenir  set  off  in  one  of  the  carts,  which  had 
arrived  with  Kvitzinsky.  Young  and  giddy  as 
I  was  at  that  period,  yet  the  sudden,  general 
change  (not  in  minor  details  alone)  which  is  al- 
ways evoked  in  all  hearts  by  the  unexpected  or 
the  expected  (it  makes  no  difference!)  appear- 
ance of  death,  its  solemnity,  importance  and 
righteousness — could  not  but  impress  me.  And 
impressed  I  was  ....  but  nevertheless,  my 
perturbed, childish  gaze  immediately  took  note  of 
many  things:  it  noted  how  Sletkin  flung  his  gun 
on  one  side,  promptly  and  timidly,  just  as  though 
it  were  a  stolen  article,  how  he  and  his  wife  both 
instantaneously  became  the  object  of  a  silent  but 
universal    avoidance,   how    a    vacant   space   was 

'  The  point  here  raiinot  be  made  apparent  in  English.  The  half- 
tittfred  word  in  Russian  mijfht  be  either:  pro  .  .  klivijnm  (curse)  or 
pro.   .  */i<r/inm  (foricive).— Thansi.atob. 

303 


A  KING  LExVR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

formed  around  them.  .  .  .  This  avoidance  was 
not  extended  to  Evkimpiya,  although,  in  all 
prohahility,  her  fault  was  no  less  grave  than  that 
of  her  sister.  She  even  aroused  a  certain  amount 
of  compassion  for  herself,  when  she  flung  her- 
self down  in  a  heap  at  the  feet  of  her  dead  father. 
But  that  she  was  guilty  was  felt  by  all,  notwith- 
standing. "  You  wronged  the  old  man," — 
said  one  grej^ish-haired,  big-headed  peasant, 
propping  both  hands  and  his  beard  on  a  long 
staff,  like  some  judge  of  ancient  times.  "  The 
sin  is  on  your  soids!  You  wronged  him!  "  That 
word,  "  wronged,"  was  immediately  accepted  by 
every  one  as  a  verdict  from  which  there  could  be 
no  appeal.  The  popular  judgment  had  been 
pronounced, — I  instantly  comprehended  that 
fact.  I  also  noticed  that  Sletkin  did  not,  at  first, 
dare  to  take  charge  of  affairs.  Without  any  ac- 
tion on  his  part,  the  people  lifted  the  body  and 
bore  it  into  the  house;  without  consulting  him, 
the  priest  wended  his  way  to  the  church  for  the 
requisite  articles,  while  the  village  elder  ran  to 
the  village,  to  despatch  a  vehicle  to  town;  even 
Anna  INI  arty  no  vna  could  not  bring  herself  to 
give  orders,  in  her  usual  commanding  tone,  that 
the  samovar  should  be  prepared, — "  in  order  that 
there  mav  be  warm  water  wherewith  to  wash  the 
deceased."     Her  order  resembled  an  entreaty — 

and  she  received  a  rude  reply 

But  I  was  still  engrossed  with  the  question: 

364. 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

What  had  he  really  meant  to  say  to  his  daughter? 
Had  he  meant  to  forgive  her,  or  to  curse  her? 
I  finally  decided,  that  he  intended  to — forgive 
her. 

Three  davs  later,  ]Martvn  Petrovitch's  funeral 
took  place,  at  the  cost  of  my  mother,  who  was 
greatly  grieved  by  his  death,  and  gave  orders  that 
no  expense  Mas  to  be  spared.  She  herself  did  not 
go  to  the  church — because  she  did  not  wish,  as 
she  expressed  it,  to  see  those  two  hussies  and  that 
abominable  .  .  .  little  Jew;  but  she  sent  Kvit- 
zinsky,  me,  and  ZliitkofF,  whom,  by  the  way, 
from  that  time  forth,  she  never  alluded  to  other- 
wise than  as  an  old  woman.  She  would  not 
permit  Souvenir  in  her  sight,  and  for  a  long 
time  afterward  she  was  angry  with  him,  call- 
ing him  the  murderer  of  her  friend.  He  felt 
this  exile  profoundly:  he  was  constantly  steal- 
ing about  on  tiptoe  in  the  room  adjoining  that 
in  which  my  mother  was,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  a  sort  of  perturbed  and  dastardly  mel- 
anchol}',  shuddering  and  whispering:  "  Imme- 
jutly!" 

In  the  church,  and  during  the  funeral  proces- 
sion, Sletkin  seemed  to  me  to  have  completely 
recovered  his  spirits.  He  issued  orders  and  bus- 
tled about  as  of  yore,  and  watched  greedily,  that 
not  a  single  superfluous  kopek  should  be  squan- 
dered, although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  affair 
did  not  concern  his  own  pocket.     Maximka,  in  a 

365 


A  KING  I.KAR  OF    riTE  STEPPES 

new  short  jacket,  also  provided  by  my  mother, 
emitted  in  the  choir  snch  tenor  notes,  that  no  one 
could,  of  course,  clierish  any  doubt  as  to  tlie  sin- 
cerity of  his  attachment  to  the  deceased!  Both 
sisters  were  in  mourning,  as  was  proj^er, — but 
appeared  to  be  more  abashed  than  afflicted, — es- 
2)ecially  Evlampiya.  Anna  assumed  a  subdued 
and  wan  aspect,  but  did  not  force  herself  to  shed 
tears,  and  merely  kept  passing  her  thin,  hand- 
some hand  over  her  hair  and  cheeks.  Evlampiya 
was  absorbed  in  thought.  The  general,  irrevoca- 
ble avoidance  and  condemnation  which  I  had  ob- 
served on  the  day  of  Kharloff' s  death,  I  thought 
I  now  descried  in  the  countenances  of  all  who 
were  present  in  the  church,  in  all  their  move- 
ments, in  their  glances, — but  still  more  in  a  staid 
and  unsympathetic  manner.  It  seemed  as 
though  all  these  people  knew  that  the  sin  into 
which  the  KharloiF  family  had  fallen — that 
great  sin — had  now  come  under  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  one  Righteous  Judge,  and  that,  conse- 
quently, there  was  no  longer  anything  for  them 
to  worry  about  or  feel  indignant  over.  They 
prayed  assiduously  for  the  soul  of  the  deceased, 
whom  they  had  not  particularly  loved,  and  had 
even  feared,  during  his  lifetime.  Death  had 
come  so  very  suddenly. 

"  He  might  at  least  have  had  the  'comfort  of 
dying  from  drink,"  said  one  peasant  to  another, 
on  the  diurch  porch. 

366 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

*'  A  man  can  get  diiink  without  drink- 
ing,"— rejDlied  the  latter.  "  What  things  do 
happen! " 

"  They  wronged  him," — the  first  peasant  re- 
peated the  decisive  word. 

"  They  wronged  him," — others  said  after 
him. 

"  But  surely,  the  deceased  used  to  oppress  you 
himself,  didn't  he?" — I  asked  of  a  2>easant 
whom  I  recognised  as  one  of  Kharloff 's. 

"  He  was  the  master,  of  course," — replied  the 
peasant: — "nevertheless  ....  thev  wronged 
him!" 

At  the  grave,  Evlampiya  stood  as  though  be- 
wildered, ^lusing,  ....  painful  musing,  tor- 
mented her.  I  noticed  that  she  treated  Sletkin, 
who  spoke  to  her  several  times,  as  she  had  treated 
Zliitkoff — and  much  worse. 

A  few  days  later,  a  rumour  became  current  in 
our  neighbourhood,  that  Evlampiya  INIartynovna 
KharlofF  had  left  the  paternal  home  forever, 
abandoning  to  her  sister  and  her  brother-in-law 
all  the  property  whicli  liad  fallen  to  her,  and  tak- 
ing with  lier  only  a  few  hundred  rubles 

"  That  Anna  has,  evidently,  bought  her  free- 
dom!"— remarked  mv  mother: — "  onlv,  thou 
and  I  have  unskilful  liands!" — she  added,  ad- 
dressing Zhitkoff,  with  whom  she  was  play- 
ing piquet — he  had  superseded  Souvenir  with 
licr.      Zhitkoff   cast    a    dejected    glance    at   his 

3G7 


A  KIXG  I.EAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

hairy  paws.  .  .  "  They  certainly  are  unskilful!  " 

he  seemed  to  be  saying  to  himself 

Soon  after  this,  my  mother  and  I  removed  our 
residence  to  JNIoscow, — and  many  years  elapsed 
before  I  chanced  to  see  the  two  daughters  of 
Martyn  Petrovitch  again. 


368 


XXX 

But  see  them  I  did.  I  encountered  Anna  Mar- 
tynovna  in  the  most  commonplace  fashion.  While 
visiting  our  country-place,  where  I  had  not  been 
for  fifteen  years,  after  the  death  of  my  mother, 
I  received  an  invitation  from  the  arbitrator — (at 
that  time,  all  over  Russia,  the  delimitation  of  the 
alternating  strips  of  land  belonging  to  proprie- 
tors and  peasants  was  proceeding  with  a  slow- 
ness which  has  not  been  forgotten  to  this  day) 
— an  invitation  to  come  for  consultation  with 
the  other  owners  of  our  country-side,  to  the 
estate  of  widow  Anna  Sletkin.  The  informa- 
tion that  mv  mother's  "  dirtv  little  Jew,"  with 
his  little  eyes  like  dried  prunes,  was  no  longer  in 
the  land  of  the  living,  did  not  cause  me  the  slight- 
est grief,  I  admit;  but  I  thought  it  would  be  in- 
teresting to  have  a  look  at  his  widow.  She  had 
tlie  reputation,  in  our  parts,  of  being  a  capital 
manager.  And  it  was  true :  her  estate  and  liome- 
farm,  and  even  her  house — (I  cast  an  involun- 
tary glance  at  the  roof;  it  was  of  iron), — all 
pro\'cd  to  be  in  superlative  order,  everything  was 
accurately,  neatly  kept,  and  where  it  was  neces- 
sary, things  were  painted — as  tliough  they  had 


A  KINCi   I.KAU  OF  THE   STEPPES 

belonged  to  a  Gerinaii  woman.  Anna  Mar- 
tynovna  lieiself  liad,  of  course,  grown  older;  but 
tiiat  peeuiiar  gaunt  and,  as  it  were,  malicious 
charm,  wiiieh  had  formerly  excited  me,  had  not 
entirely  left  her.  She  was  dressed  in  country 
fashion,  but  elegantly.  She  received  us — not 
cordially, — that  word  did  not  suit  her, — but  cour- 
teously,  and,  on  seeing  me,  the  witness  of  that 
dreadful  episode,  she  did  not  move  a  muscle. 
Not  a  syllable  did  she  utter  about  my  mother,  nor 
about  her  father  or  her  sister,  nor  even  her  hus- 
band, any  more  than  if  they  had  never  existed.^ 
She  had  two  daughters,  both  very  pretty,  well- 
built  girls,  with  sweet  little  faces,  and  a  merry, 
caressing  look  in  their  black  eyes;  she  had  also 
a  son,  who  took  somewhat  after  his  father,  but 
he  also  was  a  very  fine  little  boy.  During  the 
progress  of  the  discussion  between  the  proprie- 
tors, Anna  Martynovna  bore  herself  calmly,  with 
dignity,  displaying  neither  special  stubbornness 
nor  special  covetousness.  But  no  one  understood 
his  advantages  any  better  than  she  did  hers,  and 
no  one  understood  how  to  set  forth  more  con- 
vincingly and  to  defend  all  her  rights.  All  the 
"  laws  which  were  applicable,"  even  the  minis- 
terial circulars,  were  well  known  to  her;  she  said 
little,  and  that  in  a  (]uiet  voice,  but  every  word 
bit  the  mark.     It  ended  by  our  expressing  our 

1  Russian:  "Exactly  as  though  she  had  her  mouth 
full  of  water."— TuANSLATOR. 

370 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

assent  to  all  her  demands,  and  making  such  con- 
cessions, that  there  was  nothing  left  for  us  to  do 
but  wonder  at  them.  On  the  way  home,  some  of 
the  well-born  landed  proprietors  even  cursed 
themselves  roundly;  all  groaned  and  shook  their 
heads. 

"  What  a  clever  woman?  " — said  one. 

"  A  crafty  rogue!  " — interposed  a  second  and 
less  delicate  proj^rietor: — "  The  bed  is  soft  in  the 
making,  but  hard  to  sleep  on!  " 

"  Yes,  and  a  miser,  into  the  bargain !  " — added 
a  third: — "  "Would  it  have  hurt  her  to  give  us  a 
glass  of  vodka  and  a  bit  of  caviar?  " 

"  AVhat  do  you  expect  from  her?  " — chimed  in 
rashly  a  proprietor  who  had  hitherto  held  his 
peace; — "who  does  not  know  that  she  poisoned 
her  husband?  " 

To  my  amazement,  no  one  considered  it  neces- 
sary to  refute  this  frightful  accusation,  which, 
assuredly,  had  no  foundation!  This  surprised 
me  the  more,  because,  despite  the  objurgatory 
expressions  which  I  have  quoted,  all  felt  respect 
for  Anna  ]Martynovna,  not  even  excepting  the 
indelicate  proprietor.  The  arbitrator  even 
waxed  pathetic. 

"  Put  her  on  a  throne," — he  exclaimed, — 
"  and  slie  'd  be  a  regular  Semiramis  or  Kather- 
Ine  II!  The  obedience  of  her  peasants  is  exem- 
plary. .  .  The  way  she  has  reared  her  children 
is  exemplary!    What  a  head!    What  a  brain!" 

-371 


A  KIXC;  LEAH  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Leaving  Seniiramis  and  Katherine  II  out  of 
the  question, — there  was  no  doubt  that  Anna 
iSIartynovna  led  a  very  happy  life.  The  woman 
herself,  her  family,  her  whole  surroundings, 
fairly  reeked  witli  inward  and  outward  content- 
ment, with  the  agreeable  tran(|uillity  of  spiritual 
well-being.  To  what  degree  she  was  deserving 
of  tliat  happiness  ...  is  another  question. 
However,  one  puts  such  questions  only  in  youth. 
Everything  in  tlie  world,  both  good  and  bad,  is 
/^  bestowed  upon  a  man,  not  in  accordance  with  his 
merits,  but  as  the  result  of  some  unknown  but 
logical  laws,  which  I  will  not  even  take  it  upon 
myself  to  indicate,  although  it  sometimes  seems 
to  me  that  I  dimly  discern  them. 


XXXI 

I  INQUIRED  of  the  arbitrator  concerning  Evlam- 
piya  iSlartynovna- — and  learned  that  as  soon  as 
she  had  left  her  home  she  had  vanished  without  a 
trace — and  probably  had  long  since  "  flown  up 
on  high." 

That  was  the  way  our  arbitrator  put  it  ...  . 
but  I  am  convinced  that  I  have  seen  Evlampiya, 
that  I  have  met  her.  And  this  is  how  it  came 
about. 

About  four  years  after  my  meeting  with  Anna 
Martvnovna,  I  settled  down  for  the  summer  at 
Murino,  a  small  village  near  Petersburg,  well 
known  to  summer-villa  residents  of  moderate 
means.  The  hunting  was  not  bad  around  Mii- 
rino,  at  that  ej^och,— and  I  went  out  with  my 
gun  nearly  every  day.  I  had  a  comrade,  a  cer- 
tain Vikuloff ,  a  member  of  the  petty  burgher 
class — a  good-natured  and  far  from  stupid 
young  fellow, — but,  as  he  was  wont  to  say  of 
himself,  a  man  of  completely  "  lost  "  conduct. 

Where  and  what  had  not  that  man  been!  No- 
thing could  astonish  him,  he  knew  everything, 
— but  he  loved  nothing  excejjt  hunting — and 
liquor.     AVcll,  one  day  lie  and  I  were    return- 

373 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

ing  to  ^liiriiio,  and  we  had  to  pass  a  certain 
house,  which  stood  at  the  intersection  of  two 
roads,  and  was  enclosed  in  a  tall,  close  paling- 
fence.  It  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  seen  this 
house,  and  on  every  occasion  it  had  aroused  my 
curiosity;  there  was  something  mysterious,  fast- 
locked,  grimly-dumb,  something  which  reminded 
the  beholder  of  a  prison  or  a  hospital,  about  it. 
All  that  could  be  seen  from  the  road  was  a  steep 
roof,  painted  in  a  dark  hue.  In  all  the  fence 
there  was  but  one  gate,  and  that  appeared  to  be 
hermeticallv  fastened ;  no  sound  was  ever  audible 
behind  it.  Nevertheless,  you  felt  that  some  one 
certainly  dwelt  in  that  house;  it  did  not,  in  the 
least,  present  the  aspect  of  an  abandoned  dwell- 
ing. On  the  contrary,  everything  about  it  was 
so  durable,  and  firm,  and  stout,  that  it  could  have 
stood  a  siege. 

"  What  sort  of  a  fortress  is  this  ?  " — I  asked 
my  companion.    "  Do  you  know?  " 

Vikiiloff  gave  a  sly  wink.  "  A  remarkable 
edifice,  is  n't  it?  The  local  chief  of  police  gets 
a  large  income  from  it!  " 

"How  so?" 

"  Why,  because  he  does.  You  have  heard,  I 
suppose,  about  the  dissenters  called  the  Scour- 
gers — those  who  live  without  priests?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  of  them." 

"  Well,  this  is  where  their  head-mother  fives." 

"  A  woman? " 

374 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES 

"  Yes — the  mother ;  the  Birthgiver  of  God, 
according  to  them."  ^ 

"  What  do  vou  mean?  " 

"  Just  what  I  'm  telhng  you.  Such  a  stern 
woman  she  is,  they  say.  ...  A  regular  female 
commander-in-chief!  She  rules  over  thousands! 
I  'd  just  like  to  take  all  those  Birthgivers  of 
God,  and  give  it  to  them.  .  .  .  But  what 's  the 
use  of  saying  anything!  " 

He  called  up  his  Pegashka,  a  remarkable  dog, 
with  a  splendid  scent,  but  without  the  slight- 
est comprehension  of  pointing.  VikiilofF  was 
obliged  to  tie  up  its  hind  leg,  to  keep  it  from  run- 
ning about  wildly. 

His  words  sank  into  my  memory.  I  used  to 
go  out  of  my  way  purposely,  in  order  that  I 
might  pass  the  mysterious  house.  And  lo,  one 
day,  suddenly,  as  I  came  opposite  it, — wonderful 
to  relate!  the  bolt  thundered  in  the  gate,  the  key 
squeaked  in  the  lock, — then  the  gate  itself 
opened  gently — a  powerful  horse's  head,  with 
braided  forelock,  under  a  pattern-painted  shaft- 
archi  made  its  appearance,  and  out  on  the  road,  at 
a  leisurely  pace,  rolled  a  small  waggon  of  the 
sort  in  which  drive  little  ladies  of  the  fast  set 
and  tlie  mistresses  of  merchants.  On  the  leathern 
cusKon  of  the  v/aggon,  nearest  to  me,  sat  a  man 

'The  Russian  title  of  the  Virgin  is  correctly  translated  thus,  and 
all  the  peculiar  Russian  sects  (almost  without  exception)  have  Ma- 
don»'%s  — soi»«  even  Christs.— Tkansi.atou. 

375 


A  KING  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

of  about  tliiity  years  of  age,  of  remarkably  hand- 
some and  benevolent  appearance,  in  a  neat  black 
lon«4-coat,  and  with  a  black  cap  of  military  shape 
pulled  low  down  upon  his  brow;  he  was  driving, 
in  a  sedate  way,  the  broad-backed  horse,  full- 
fed  to  bursting;  and  by  the  side  of  the  man,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  waggon,  sat  a  woman  of 
lofty  stature,  straight  as  an  arrow.  A  costly 
black  shawl  covered  her  head ;  she  was  dressed  in 
a  short  velvet  sacque,  olive  in  hue,  and  a  dark- 
blue  merino  petticoat;  her  white  hands»  staidly 
folded  on  her  lap,  supported  each  other.  The 
waggon  turned  into  the  road  to  the  left, — and 
the  woman  was  brought  within  two  paces  of  me; 
she  turned  her  head  slightly, — and  I  recognised 
Evlampiya  Kharloff .  I  recognised  her  instantly, 
— I  did  not  hesitate  for  a  single  moment, — 
and,  indeed,  hesitation  was  impossible:  such  eyes 
as  she  had, — and  especially  such  a  curve  of  the 
lips,  arrogant  and  sensual, — I  have  never  beheld 
in  any  one  else.  Her  face  had  grown  longer  and 
thinner,  her  skin  had  darkened,  here  and  there 
wrinkles  were  visible;  but  the  expression  of  that 
face  in  particular  had  undergone  a  change!  It 
is  difficult  to  convey  in  words  to  what  a  degree  it 
had  become  self-confident,  stern,  haughty!  It 
was  not  the  simple  composure  of  authority, — but 
the  utter  permeation  of  authority,  which  every 
feature  breathed  forth ;  the  careless  glance  which 
she  dropped  on  me  expressed  a  long-established, 

376 


A  KIXG  LEAR  OF  THE   STEPPES 

ingrained  habit  of  encountering  only  adoring, 
unquestioning  submission.  This  woman — evi- 
dently— lived  surrounded  not  by  admirers, — but 
by  slaves:  obviously,  she  had  even  forgotten  the 
time  when  any  command  or  even  wish  of  hers 
had  not  been  instantlv  fulfilled!  I  called  her 
loudly  by  name  and  patronymic;  she  gave  a 
barely  perceptible  start,  cast  another  glance  at 
me — not  of  alarm, — but  of  scornful  indignation : 
as  much  as  to  say:  "  Who  dares  to  disturb  me?  " 
— and  barely  opening  her  lips,  she  uttered  an  im- 
perious word.  The  man  who  sat  beside  her  gave 
a  start,  dealt  a  flourishing  blow  with  the  reins  to 
the  horse, — which  moved  on  with  a  brisk,  large 
trot, — and  the  waggon  disappeared. 

I  have  never  met  Evlampiya  since.  How  the 
daughter  of  Martyn  Petrovitch  came  to  be  the 
Birthgiver  of  God  to  the  Scourgers — I  cannot 
even  imagine;  but  who  knows — perhaps  she  was 
the  founder  of  a  sect,  which  will  be  called — or  is 
even  now  called,  by  her  name, — "  the  Evlampi- 
yevshtchina  "  ?  All  sorts  of  things  come  to  pass. 

And  this  is  what  I  had  to  tell  you  about  my 
"  King  Lear  of  the  Steppe,"  his  family  and  his 
doings. 

The  narrator  ceased  speaking — and  we 
chatted  a  while,  then  went  our  ways. 


377 


PHANTOMS 

(1863) 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PHANTOMS:   A  FANTASY 1 

YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 55 

"FAUST":  A  STORY  IN  NINE  LETTERS      .     .  127 

AN  EXCURSION  TO  THE  FOREST  BELT  ...  203 

ASYA 239 


PHANTOMS 

(1863) 


PHANTOMS 


A  FANTASY 


One  instant  .  .   .  and  the  magic  tale  is  o'er— 
And  with  the  possible  the  soul  is  filled  once  more. 

A.  Fet.i 


I  COULD  not  get  to  sleep  for  a  long  time,  and 
kept  tossing  incessantly  from  side  to  side. 
"  ]May  the  devil  take  those  table-tipping  follies !  " 
—  I  thought:  —  "they  only  upset  the  nerves." — 
Drowsiness  began  to  overpower  me.  .  . 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  a  chord 
had  twanged  faintly  and  lugubriously  in  the 
room. 

I  raised  my  head.  The  moon  was  hanging  low 
in  the  sky,  and  staring  me  straight  in  the  eye. 
White  as  chalk  its  light  lay  on  the  floor.  .  .  . 
The  strange  sound  was  clearly  repeated. 

I  leaned  on  my  elbow.  A  slight  alarm  nipped 
at  my  heart.  —  One  minute  passed,  then  another. 
....  A  cock  crowed  somewhere  in  the  distance; 
still  further  away  another  answered. 

I  dropped  my  head  on  my  pillow.     "  Just  see 

^The  pseudonym  of  Afandsy  Afandsievitch  Sh^nsbin 
(1820-1K92).— Tkanslatoh. 

8 


THANTOMS 

to  what  one  can  bring  one's  self,"  I  began  my  re- 
flections again:  —  "my  ears  will  begin  to  ring." 

A  little  later  I  fell  asleep  — or  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  did.  I  had  a  remarkable  dream.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  thongh  I  were  lying  in  my  bedroom,  in 
my  bed,  but  I  was  not  asleep,  and  could  not  close 
my  eyes.  ...  I  turned  over.  .  .  .  The  streak  of 
moonlight  on  the  floor  softly  began  to  rise  up, 
to  straighten  itself,  to  become  slightly  rounded  at 
the  top.  .  .  .  Before  me,  transparent  as  mist, 
a  white  woman  stood  motionless. 

"  Who  art  thou?  "  —  I  asked  with  an  effort. 

The  voice  which  replied  was  like  the  rustling 
of  leaves.—"  It  is  I ....  I  ....  I  ....  I  have  come 
for  thee." 

"  For  me  ?    But  who  art  thou  ?  " 

"  Come  by  night  to  the  corner  of  the  forest, 
where  the  old  oak  stands.    I  shall  be  there." 

I  tried  to  get  a  good  look  at  the  features  of 
the  mysterious  woman — and  suddenly  I  gave  an 
involuntary  start:  I  felt  a  chill  breath  on  me. 
And  now  I  was  no  longer  lying  in  my  bed,  but 
sitting  on  it — and  there,  where  the  spectre  had 
seemed  to  stand,  the  moonlight  lay  in  a  long 
streak  on  the  floor. 

II 

The  day  passed  after  a  fashion.     I  remember 
that  I  tried  to  read,  to  work  ....  it  came  to  no- 

4 


PHANTOMS 

thing.  Night  arrived.  JNly  heart  beat  violently 
within  me,  as  though  I  were  expecting  something. 
I  went  to  bed  and  turned  my  face  to  the  wall. 

"Why  didst  thou  not  come?  "—an  audible 
whisper  rang  out  in  tlie  room. 

I  glanced  round  swiftly. 

It  was  she  again  ....  the  mysterious  phan- 
tom. ^Motionless  eyes  in  a  motionless  face,  and 
a  gaze  full  of  grief. 

"Come!"  — the    whisper    made    itself    heard 

again. 

"  I  will  come," — I  replied,  with  involuntary 
terror.  The  phantom  quietly  swayed  forward, 
and  became  all  mixed  up,  undulating  lightly  like 
smoke;— and  the  moonlight  again  lay  white  upon 
the  polished  floor. 

Ill 

I  PASSED  the  day  in  a  state  of  agitation.  At  sup- 
per I  drank  almost  a  whole  bottle  of  wine,  and 
started  to  go  out  on  the  porch ;  but  returned,  and 
flung  myself  on  my  bed.  oNIy  blood  was  surging 
heavily  through  my  veins. 

Again  a  sound  made  itself  heard.  ...  I  shud- 
dered, but  did  not  look  round.  Suddenly  I  felt 
some  one  clasp  me  in  a  close  embrace  from  behind, 
and  whisper  in  my  ear:  "  Come,  come,  come!" 
....  Trembling  with  fright  I  groaned: 

"  I  will  come!  "—and  straightened  myself  up. 

5 


PHANTOMS 

The  woman  stood  bending  over  me,  close  beside 
the  head  of  my  bed.  She  smiled  faintly  and  van- 
islied.  But  I  had  succeeded  in  scrutinising  her 
face.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  seen  her  before; 
—  but  where?  when?  I  rose  late  and  roamed  about 
the  fields  all  day  long,  a])])roached  the  old  oak- 
tree  on  the  border  of  the  forest,  and  made  an  at- 
tentive inspection  of  the  surroundings. 

Toward  evening  I  seated  myself  at  an  open 
window  in  my  stud}^  The  old  housekeeper  set  a 
cup  of  tea  before  me — but  I  did  not  taste  it. 
.  .  .  .  I  kept  wondering  and  asking  myself: 
"  Am  not  I  losing  my  mind?  "  The  sun  had  only 
just  set— and  not  only  did  the  sky  grow  red,  but 
the  whole  air  suddenly  became  suffused  with  an 
almost  unnatural  crimson;  the  leaves  and  grass,, 
as  though  covered  with  fresh  varnish,  did  not 
stir;  in  their  stony  immobility,  in  the  sharp  bril- 
lianc}^  of  their  outlines,  in  that  commingling  of 
a  strong  glow  and  death-like  tranquillity,  there 
was  something  strange,  enigmatical.  A  rather 
large  grey  bird  flew  up  without  any  sound,  and 
alighted  on  the  very  edge  of  the  window.  ...  I 
looked  at  it — and  it  looked  at  me  askance  with 
its  round,  dark  eye.  "  I  wonder  if  she  did  not 
send  thee  in  order  to  remind  me?" — I  thought. 

The  bird  immediately  fluttered  its  soft  wings, 
and  flew  away,  as  before,  without  any  noise.  I 
sat  for  a  long  time  still  at  the  window,  but  I  no 
longer  gave  myself  up  to  wonder:  I  seemed  to 

6 


PHANTOMS 

have  got  into  a  charmed  circle,  and  an  irresisti- 
ble though  quiet  power  was  drawing  me  on,  as 
the  onrush  of  the  torrent  draws  the  boat  while 
still  far  away  from  the  falls.  At  last  I  gave  a 
start.  Tlie  crimson  had  long  since  disappeared 
from  the  air,  the  hues  had  darkened,  and  the  en- 
chanted silence  had  ceased.  A  breeze  was  begin- 
ning to  flutter  about,  the  moon  stood  out  with 
ever-increasing  distinctness  in  the  sky  which  was 
turning  darkly  blue, — and  soon  the  leaves  on  the 
trees  began  to  gleam  silver  and  black  in  its  cold 
raj'S.  My  old  woman  entered  my  study  with  a 
lighted  candle,  but  the  draught  from  the  window 
blew  on  it  and  extinguished  the  flame.  I  could 
endure  it  no  longer;  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  banged 
my  cap  down  on  my  head,  and  set  out  for  the  cor 
ner  of  the  forest,  for  the  aged  oak. 


IV 

IMany  years  before,  this  oak  had  been  struck  by 
lightning;  its  crest  had  been  shattered  and  had 
withered  away,  but  it  still  retained  life  enough 
for  several  centuries.  As  I  began  to  draw  near 
to  it,  a  dark  cloud  floated  across  the  moon:  it  was 
very  dark  under  its  wide-spreading  boughs.  At 
first  I  did  not  notice  anything  peculiar;  but  I 
glanced  to  one  side  — and  my  heart  sank  within 
me;  a  white  flgure  was  standing  motionless  beside 

7 


PHANTOMS 

a  tall  bush,  between  the  oak-tree  and  the  forest. 
JNIy  hair  rose  slightly  on  my  head;  but  I  sum- 
moned my  courage,  and  advanced  toward  the 
forest. 

Yes,  it  was  she,  my  nocturnal  visitor.  As  I 
approached  her,  the  moon  shone  forth  again.  She 
seemed  all  woven  of  semi-transparent,  milky 
vapour,— through  her  face  I  could  see  a  branch 
softly  waving  in  the  wind, — only  her  hair  and 
eyes  shone  dimly-black,  and  on  one  of  the  fingers 
of  her  clasped  hands  gleamed  a  narrow  gold  ring. 
I  halted  in  front  of  her,  and  tried  to  speak; 
but  my  voice  died  in  my  breast,  although  I  no 
longer  felt  any  real  terror.  Her  eyes  were  turned 
upon  me;  their  gaze  expressed  neither  grief  nor 
joy,  but  a  certain  lifeless  attention.  I  waited  to 
see  whether  she  would  utter  a  word ;  but  she  stood 
motionless  and  dumb,  and  kept  gazing  at  me 
with  her  deadly-intent  look.  Again  I  began  to 
feel  uneasy. 

"  I  have  come!" — I  exclaimed  at  last  with  an 
effort.     My  voice  had  a  dull,  queer  ring. 

"  I  love  thee," — a  whisper  became  audible. 

"  Thou  lovest  me! " — I  repeated  in  amazement. 

"  Give  thyself  to  me," — rustled  the  voice  again 
in  reply  to  me. 

*'  Give  myself  to  thee!  But  thou  art  a  phantom 
— thou  hast  no  body." — A  strange  sensation  over- 
powered me.—"  What  art  thou,— smoke,  air,  va- 
pour?   Give  myself  to  thee!    Answer  me  first — 

8 


J 


PHANTOMS 

who  art  thou?  Hast  thou  lived  upon  earth? 
Whence  hast  thou  revealed  thyself?  " 

"  Give  thyself  to  me.  I  will  do  thee  no  harm. 
Say  only  two  words :  *  Take  me.'  '* 

I  looked  at  her.  "  What  is  that  she  is  saying?  '* 
I  thought.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this? 
And  how  will  she  take  me?  Shall  I  try  the  ex- 
periment?"   <^  c'C/\i(s^^i<:   /lit+tioo-    s^i-accy^j-* 

"  Well,    very    good,"— I   uttered   aloud,    and     '^f^ 
with  unexpected  force,  as  though  some  one  had  %^ 

given  me  a  push  from  behind.    "  Take  me!  "  ^ 

Before  I  had  finislied  uttering  these  words,  the 
mysterious  figure,  with  a  sort  of  inward  laugh, 
which  made  her  face  quiver  for  an  instant,  swayed 
forward,  her  arms  separated  and  were  out- 
stretched. ...  I  tried  to  spring  aside ;  but  I  was 
already  in  her  power.  She  clasped  me  in  her  em- 
brace, my  body  rose  about  fourteen  inches  from 
the  earth  — and  we  both  soared  off,  smoothly  and 
not  too  swiftly,  over  the  wet,  motionless  grass. 


At  first  my  head  reeled,  and  I  involuntarily  closed 
my  eyes.  ...  A  minute  later,  I  opened  them 
again.  We  were  floating  on  as  before.  But  the 
forest  was  no  longer  visi})le;  beneath  us  lay  out- 
spread a  level  plain  dotted  witli  dark  spots.  With 
terror  I  convinced  myself  that  we  had  risen  to  a 
fearful  height. 


PHANTOMS 


"  I  am  lost— I  am  in  the  power  of  Satan,"" 
^  Hashed  through  me  Hke  hghtning.     Up  to  that 

moment,  the  thought  of  ohsession  by  an  unclean 
power,  of  the  possibility  of  damnation,  had  not 
entered  my  head.  We  continued  to  dash  head- 
long onward,  and  seemed  to  be  soaring  ever 
higher  and  higher. 

"  Whither  art  thou  carrying  me?  "  —  I  moaned 
at  last. 

"  Wherever  thou  wishest,"— replied  my  fellow- 
traveller.  She  was  sticking  close  to  me  all  over; 
her  face  almost  rested  on  my  face.  Nevertheless, 
I  barely  felt  her  touch. 

"  Let  me  down  to  the  earth;  I  feel  giddy  at  this 
height." 

"  Good ;  only  shut  your  eyes  and  do  not  take 
breath." 

I  obeyed— and  immediately  felt  myself  falling, 
like  a  stone  which  has  been  hurled.  .  .  .  the  wind 
whistled  through  my  hair.  When  I  came  to  my- 
self, we  were  again  floating  close  above  the 
ground,  so  that  we  caught  in  the  tips  of  the  tall 
plants. 

"Set  me  on  my  feet,"— I  began.— "What 
pleasure  is  there  in  flying?    I  am  not  a  bird." 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  agreeable  to  you.  We 
have  no  other  occupation." 

"  You  have  not?    But  who  are  you?  " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Thou  dost  not  dare  to  tell  me  that?  '* 

10 


PHANTOMS 

A  plaintive  sound,  like  that  which  had  awak- 
ened me  on  the  first  night,  trembled  on  my  ear. 
In  the  meantime,  we  continued  to  move  almost 
imperceptibly  through  the  night  air. 

"  Let  me  go!  "—I  said.  ^ly  companion  bent 
backward,  and  I  found  myself  on  my  feet.  She 
came  to  a  halt  in  front  of  me  and  again  clasped 
her  hands.  I  recovered  my  equanimity  and 
looked  her  in  the  face:  as  before,  it  expressed 
submissive  grief. 

"  Where  are  we?  "  —  I  queried.  I  did  not  rec- 
ognise my  surroundings. 

"  Far  from  thy  home,  but  thou  may  est  be  there 
in  one  moment." 

"  In  what  manner?  Am  I  to  trust  myself  to 
thee  again?  " 

"  I  have  not  done  and  will  not  do  thee  any 
liarm.  We  shall  float  together  until  dawn,  that  is 
all.  I  can  carry  thee  whithersoever  thou  wishest 
— to  all  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Give  thyself  to 
me;  say  again:  '  Take  me! 

"Well,  then  ....  take  me!" 

Again  she  fell  u])on  my  neck,  again  my  feet 
left  the  earth — and  away  we  flew. 


VI 


<( 


Whither?  "—she  asked   me. 
"  Straiglit  ahead,  ever  straight  ahead." 
"  But  the  forest  lies  in  tliat  direction." 

11 


Y 


V) 


PHANTOMS 

"  Let  us  rise  above  the  forest— only,  very 
^ently/^ 

We"^ared  aloft,  like  wood-snipe  flying  upon 
a  birch-tree,  and  again  floated  on  in  a  straight 
[)  line.  Instead  of  grass,  the  crests  of  the  trees 
flitted  past  under  our  feet.  It  was  wonderful  to 
see  the  forest  from  above,  its  bristling  spine  all 
illuminated  by  the  moon.  It  seemed  some  sort 
of  a  vast  slumbering  wild  beast,  and  accompanied 
us  with  a  broad,  incessant  rustling,  resembling  an 
unintelligible^  growl. ;   Here  and  there  we  came 


"aCrOss" small  glades;  a  dentated  strip  of  shadow 
stood  out  finely  in  black  on  one  side  of  them. 
.  .  .  .  Now  and  then  a  hare  cried  pitifully  below; 
up  above,  an  owl  whistled,  also  in  plaintive  wise; 
there  was  an  odour  of  mushrooms,  of  buds,  of 
lovage  abroad  in  the  air;  the  moonlight  fairly 
poured  in  a  flood  in  all  directions — coldly  and 
severel}'^ ;  the  myriad  stars  glittered  directly  above 
our  heads. 

And  now  the  forest  was  left  behind;  athwart 
the  plain  stretched  a  strip  of  mist ;  a  river  flowed 
there.  We  floated  along  one  of  its  shores,  above 
the  bushes,  rendered  heavy  and  immovable  by 
humidity.  The  waves  on  the  river  now  glistened 
with  a  blue  gleam,  now  rolled  on  darkly  and  as 
though  they  were  vicious.  In  places  a  thin  vapour 
moved  strangely  above  it,  and  the  cups  of  the 
water-lilies  shone  out  with  the  virginal  and  sump- 
tuous whiteness  of  al)  their  unfolded  petals,  as 

12 


PHAXTOMS 

though  they  knew  that  they  were  inaccessible.  I 
took  it  into  my  head  to  pluck  one  of  them— and 
lo!  I  immediately  found  myself  directly  over  the 
smooth  surface  of  the  river.  .  .  .  The  dampness 
struck  me  unpleasantly  in  the  face  as  soon  as  I 
had  broken  the  strong  stem  of  a  large  blossom. 
We  began  to  flit  from  shore  to  shore,  like  the 
sand-pipers,  which  we  kept  waking,  and  which 
we  pursued.  ]More  than  once  it  happened  that 
we  flew  down  upon  a  little  family  of  wild  ducks, 
disposed  in  a  circle  on  a  clear  spot  among  the 
reeds— but  they  did  not  stir;  perhaps  one  of  them 
would  hastily  take  its  head  out  from  under  its 
wing,  look  and  look,  and  then  anxiously  thrust 
its  bill  back  again  into  its  downy  feathers;  or 
another  would  quack  faintly,  its  whole  bodj^  quiv- 
ering the  while.  We  frightened  one  heron;  it 
rose  out  of  a  willow  bush,  with  dangling  legs,  and 
flapped  its  wings  with  awkward  vigour;  it  really 
did  seem  to  me  then  to  resemble  a  German.  Not 
a  fish  splashed  anywhere— tliey,  too,  were  asleej?. 
I  began  to  get  used  to  the  sensation  of  flying, 
and  even  found  a  certain  pleasure  in  it;  any  one 
who  has  chanced  to  fly  in  his  sleep  will  understand 
me.  I  took  to  watching  with  great  attention  tlie 
strange  being,  tliariks  to  whom  such  improbable 
events  were  happening  to  me. 


13 


(( 
<( 


PHANTOMS 


VII 

She  was  a  woman  with  a  small,  non-Russian 
face.  Greyish-white,  semi-transparent,  with 
barely-defined  shadows,  it  reminded  one  of 
the  figures  on  an  alabaster  vase  illuminated 
from  within— and  again  it  seemed  to  be  familiar 
to  me. 

"  May  I  talk  with  thee?  "-I  said. 
Speak." 

I  see  that  thou  hast  a  ring  on  thy  finger;  so 
thou  hast  dwelt  on  earth— thou  hast  been  mar- 
ried? " 

I  paused.  .  .  .  There  was  no  reply. 

"  What  is  th}^  name— or  what  was  thy  name, 
at  least?  " 

"  Call  me  Elhs." 

"  ElHs!  That  is  an  English  name?  Art  thou 
an  English  woman?  Thou  hast  known  me  be- 
fore?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  didst  thou  reveal  thyself  to  me  in  par- 
ticular? " 

"  I  love  thee." 

"  And  art  thou  content?  " 

"  Yes;  we  are  floating,  we  are  circling,  you  and 
I,  through  the  pure  air." 

"  Ellis!  "  —  I  said  suddenly,  —  *'  perchance  thou 
art  a  guilty,  a  damned  soul  ?  " 

14 


PHANTOMS 

]My  companion's  head  dropped.  —  "  I  do  not  un- 
derstand thee,"  —  she  whispered. 

"  I  adjure  thee,  in  God's  name  .  .  .  ."I  was 
beginning. 

"  What  art  thou  saying? " — she  said  with  sur- 
prise.—  "  I  do  not  understand."  — It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  arm  which  lay  about  my  waist  hke  a 
girdle,  was  moving  gently.  .  .  . 

"  Fear  not," — said  Ellis, — "  fear  not,  my  dear 
one!  " — Her  face  turned  and  moved  closer  to  mv 
face.  ...  I  felt  on  my  lips  a  strange  sensation, 
like  the  touch  of  a  soft,  delicate  sting.  .  .  . 
Leeches  which  are  not  vicious  take  hold  in  that 
way. 

VIII 

I  GLANCED  downward.  We  had  again  managed 
to  rise  to  a  very  considerable  height.  We  were 
flying  over  a  county  capital  with  which  I  was 
unfamiliar,  situated  on  the  slope  of  a  broad  hill. 
The  churches  reared  themselves  amid  a  dark  mass 
of  wooden  roofs  and  fruit  orchards;  a  long  bridge 
lowered  black  at  a  curve  in  the  river;  everything 
was  silent,  overwhelmed  with  sleep.  The  very 
domes  and  crosses  seemed  to  glitter  with  a  dumb 
gleam;  dumbly  the  tall  poles  of  the  wells  reared 
tbemselves  aloft  beside  the  round  clumps  of  wil- 
lows; the  whitish  highway  dumbly  plunged,  like 
a  narrow  dart,  into  one  end  of  the  town  —  and 

15 


PHANTOMS 

dumbly  emerged  from  tlie  other  side  upon  the 
|Tloomy  expanse  of  the  monotonous  fields. 

"  What  town  is  that?  "  —  I  queried. 

"  ***ofF,  in  the  ***  Government." 

"  ***off,  in  the  ***  Government?  '* 
1  es. 

"  Well,  I  am  very  far  from  home!  " 

"  For  us  distance  is  nothing." 

"  Really?  "  Sudden  boldness  flashed  up  within 
me.  — "  Then  carry  me  to  South  America!  " 

"  I  cannot  go  to  America.  It  is  day  there  now," 

"  While  you  and  I  are  night  birds?  Well, 
somewhere  or  other,  only  as  far  off  as  possible." 

"  Close  thine  eyes  and  do  not  draw  breath," — 
replied  Ellis,  —  and  we  dashed  headlong  onward 
with  the  swiftness  of  the  whirlwind.  The  wind 
rushed  into  my  ears  with  a  crashing  noise. 

We  halted,  but  the  noise  did  not  cease.  On 
the  contrary,  it  had  become  converted  into  a  sort 
of  menacing  roar,  a  thunderous  din.  .  .  . 

"  Now  thou  mayest  open  thine  eyes," — said 
EUis. 

IX 

I  OBEYED.  .  .  .  My  God,  where  was  I  ? 

Overhead  were  heavy,  smoky  clouds ;  they  were 
crowding  together,  and  flying  like  a  herd  of 
vicious  monsters  ....  and  yonder,  below,  was 
another  monster:  the  raging,  just  that, — raging 

16 


PHAXTOMS 

sea.  .  .  .  The  white  foam  was  glistening  con\Til- 
sively,  and  seething  in  it  in  mounds, — and  rearing 
aloft  in  shaggy  billows,  it  was  pounding  with 
harsh  thunder  on  the  pitch-black  cliffs.  The  howl- 
ing of  the  storm,  the  icy  breath  of  the  heaving 
deep,  the  heavy  dashing  of  the  surf,  in  which,  at 
times,  one  seemed  to  hear  something  resembling 
howls,  the  distant  firing  of  cannon,  the  ringing 
of  bells,  the  torturing  shriek,  and  the  grinding 
of  the  pebbles  on  the  shore,  the  sudden  scream  of 
an  invisible  gull,  on  the  troubled  horizon  the 
reeling  remains  of  a  ship — everpvhere  death, 
death  and  horror.  .  .  .  oSIy  head  began  to  reel, 
and  swooning,  I  again  closed  my  eyes.  .  .  . 

"  What  is  this?    Where  are  we?  " 

"  On  the  southern  shore  of  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
in  front  of  the  Blackgang  Cliff,  where  ships  are 
so  frequently  dashed  to  pieces,"  — said  Ellis,  this 
time  with  peculiar  distinctness  and,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  not  without  malicious  joy.  .  .  . 

"  Take  me  awav,  awav  from  here.  .  .  .  home! 
Home!  " 

I  shrank  together  utterly,  I  clutched  my  face 
in  my  hands.  ...  I  felt  that  we  were  floating 
still  more  swiftly  than  before;  the  wind  no  longer 
howled  nor  whistled  — it  shrieked  through  my 
hair,  in  my  garments.  ...  I  gas])ed  for  breath.  .  .  . 

"  Now  stand  on  thy  feet,"  — rang  out  the  voice 
of  Ellis. 

I  tried  to  control  myself,  my  consciousness.  . . . 

17 


PHANTOMS 

I  felt  tlie  ground  under  foot,  but  heard  nothing, 
as  though  everything  round  about  had  died  .  ... 
only  the  blood  beat  irregularly  in  my  temples,  and 
my  head  still  reeled  with  a  faint,  internal  sound. 
I  straightened  myself  up  and  opened  my  eyes. 

X 

We  were  on  the  dam  of  my  pond.  Directly  in 
front  of  me,  athwart  the  pointed  leaves  of  the 
willows,  its  broad  expanse  was  visible  with  fila- 
ments of  feathery  mist  clinging  to  it  here  and 
there.  On  the  right  a  field  of  rye  glinted  dully; 
on  the  left  the  trees  of  the  garden  reared  them- 
selves aloft,  long,  motionless,  and  damp  in  ap- 
pearance. .  .  .  ^Morning  had  not  yet  breathed 
upon  them.  Across  the  sky  two  or  three  clouds 
were  stretched,  obli(![uely,  like  wreaths  of  smoke; 
they  seemed  yellowish,  and  the  first  faint  reflec- 
tion of  the  dawn  fell  on  them,  God  knows 
M'hence :  the  eye  could  not  yet  detect  on  the  whit- 
ening horizon  the  s])ot  from  which  it  must  be  bor- 
rowed. The  stars  had  disappeared;  nothing  was 
stirring  yet,  although  everything  was  already 
awake  in  the  enchanted  stillness  of  early  morn- 

"The  morning!  Yonder  is  the  morning!" — 
exclaimed  Ellis  in  my  very  ear.  .  .  .  "  P^arewell! 
until  to-morrow !  " 

I  turned.  .  .  .  Lightly  quitting  the  ground, 

18 


PHANTOMS 

she  floated  past,— and  suddenly  raised  both  arms 
above  her  head.  The  head,  and  the  arms,  and  the 
shoulders  instantly  flushed  with  warm,  corporeal 
light;  in  the  dark  eyes  quivered  living  sparks;  a 
smile  of  mysterious  delicacy  flitted  across  the  red- 
dening lips.  ...  A  charming  woman  suddenly 
made  her  appearance  before  me.  .  .  .  But  she  in- 
stantly threw  herself  backward,  as  though  falling 
into  a  swoon,  and  melted  away  like  vapour. 

I  stood  motionless. 

When  I  came  to  my  senses  and  looked  about 
me,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  corporeal,  pale-rosy 
flush  which  had  coursed  over  the  figure  of  my 
phantom  had  not  yet  vanished  and,  dispersed 
through  the  air,  was  flooding  me  on  all  sides.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  dawn  flushing  red.  Lsuddenly  became 
conscious  of  extreme  fatigue  and  wended  my 
way  homeward.  As  I  passed  the  poultry-yard 
I  heard  the  first  matutinal  quacking  of  the  gos- 
lings (no  bird  wakes  earlier  than  they)  ;  along  the 
roof,  at  the  tip  of  each  projecting  stake,  perched 
a  daw;  and  all  of  them  were  diligently  and  si- 
lently pluming  themselves,  distinctly  outlined 
against  the  milky  sky.  From  time  to  time,  they 
all  rose  into  the  air  simultaneously  and,  after 
flying  about  a  little  while,  alighted  again  in  a 
I'ow,  without  croaking.  .  .  .  From  tlie  forest 
near  at  hand  was  wafted,  twice,  the  hoarsely- 
fresh  cry  of  the  black-cock,  which  liad  just  flown 
up   from   the   dewy   grass   all   overgrown   with 

19 


PIIAXTOINIS 

berries.  .  .  .  With  a  light  sliivcr  all  ov^er  my 
body,  I  gained  my  bed  and  speedily  sank  into  a 
sound  sleep. 

XI 

On  the  following  niglit,  when  I  began  to  draw 
near  to  the  ancient  oak,  Ellis  floated  to  meet  me, 
as  to  a  friend.  I  was  not  afraid  of  her  as  on  the 
preceding  day ;  I  was  almost  delighted  to  see  her. 
1  did  not  even  attempt  to  understand  what  had 
happened  with  me:  all  I  cared  about  was  to  fly 
as  far  as  possible,  through  curious  places. 

Again  Ellis's  arm  was  wound  about  me— and 
again  we  darted  off. 

"  Let  us  go  to  Italy,"— I  whispered  in  her  ear. 

"  Whithersoever  thou  wilt,  my  dear  one," — 
she  replied  solemnly  and  softly— and  softly  and 
solemnly  she  turned  her  face  toward  me.  It 
seemed  to  me  to  be  less  transparent  than  on  the 
day  before;  more  feminine  and  more  dignified; 
it  reminded  me  of  that  beautiful  creature  who 
liad  flashed  before  my  vision  in  the  dawn  before 
our  parting. 

"  To-night  is  a  great  night,"— went  on  Ellis. 
— "It  rarely  comes,- only  when  seven  times  thir- 
teen .  .  .  ." 

At  this  point  I  lost  several  words. 

"  Now  that  can  be  seen  which  is  invisible  at 
other  times," 

20 


PHANTOMS 

"  Ellis!  "-I  pleaded,-"  who  art  thou?  Tell 
me! 

She  silently  raised  her  long,  white  hand. 

In  the  dark  heaven,  at  the  point  to  which  her 
finger  pointed,  in  the  midst  of  tiny  stars,  a  comet 
gleamed  in  a  reddish  streak. 

"How  am  I  to  understand  thee?" — I  began. 
— "  Dost  thou  mean  that  thou  soarest  like  that 
comet,  between  the  planets  and  the  sun, — that 
thou  soarest  among  men  ....  and  how?" 

But  Ellis's  hand  was  suddenly  clapped  over  my 
eyes.  .  .  .  Something  akin  to  the  grey  mist  from 
a  damp  valley  enveloped  me.  .  .  . 

"  To  Italy!  to  Italy!  " — I  heard  her  whisper. — 
"  This  night  is  a  great  night!  " 

XII 

The  mist  disappeared  from  before  my  eyes,  and  I 
beheld  beneath  me  an  interminable  plain.  But 
I  was  able  to  understand,  from  the  very  touch  of 
the  warm,  soft  air  on  my  cheeks,  that  I  was  not 
in  Russia;  and  neither  did  tliat  plain  resemble 
our  Russian  plains.  It  was  a  vast,  dim  expanse, 
apparently  devoid  of  grass  and  empty;  here  and 
there,  throughout  its  entire  lengtli,  gleamed  small 
stagnant  pools,  like  tiny  fragments  of  a  mirror; 
far  away  the  inaudible,  motionless  sea  was  visible 
Crreat  stars  glittered  in  the  intervals  between  the 
large,  beautiful  clouds;  a  thousand-voiced,  un- 

21 


PHANTOMS 

ceasing,  yet  not  clamorous  trill,  arose  in  all  direc- 
tions; and  wonderful  was  that  penetrating  and 
dreamy  rumble,  that  voice  of  the  nocturnal 
desert.  .  .  . 

"  The  Pontine  ]Marshes,"-said  Ellis.-"  Dost 
thou  hear  the  frogs  ?  Dost  thou  discern  jheodour 
of  sulphur?  " 

"  The  Pontine  Marshes  .  ..."  I  repeated,  and 
a  sensation  of  majestic  sadness  took  possession 
of  me.  — "  But  why  hast  thou  brought  me  hither, 
to  this  mournful,  deserted  region  ?  Let  us  rather 
fly  to  Rome." 

"  Rome  is  close  at  hand," — replied  Ellis.  .  .  . 
"  Prepare  thyself!  " 

We  descended  and  dashed  along  the  ancient 
Roman  road.  A  buffalo  slowly  raised  from  the 
ooze  his  shaggy,  monstrous  head  with  short 
whorls  of  bristles  between  the  crooked  horns 
which  curved  backward.  He  rolled  the  whites 
of  his  eyes  sideways,  and  snorted  heavily  with 
his  wet  nostrils,  as  though  he  scented  us. 

"  Rome,  Rome  is  near,"  ....  whispered 
Ellis.—"  Look,  look  ahead." 

I  raised  my  eyes. 

What  was  that  which  rose  darkly  against  the 
night  sky?  The  lofty  arches  of  a  huge  bridge? 
What  river  did  it  span?  AVhy  was  it  rent  in 
places  ?  No,  it  was  not  a  bridge,  it  was  an  ancient 
aqueduct.  Round  about  lay  the  sacred  land  of 
Campania,  and  yonder,  far  away,  were  the  Alban 

22 


PHANTOMS 

Hills;  and  their  crests  and  the  great  back  of  the 
ancient  aqueduct  gleamed  faintly  in  the  rays  of 
the  moon  which  had  just  risen.  .  .  . 

We  suddenly  soared  upward  and  hung  sus- 
pended in  the  air  before  an  isolated  ruin.  Xo 
one  could  have  told  what  it  had  formerly  been: 
a  tomb,  a  palace,  a  tower.  .  .  .  Black  ivy  envel- 
oped the  whole  of  it  with  its  deadly  power — and 
below,  a  half -ruined  arch  j^awned  like  jaws.  A 
heavy,  cellar-like  odour  was  wafted  in  my  face 
from  that  heap  of  small,  closely-packed  stones, 
from  which  the  granite  facing  of  the  wall  had 
long  since  fallen  off. 

"Here," — said  Ellis,  raising  her  hand; — 
"here! — Utter  loudly,  thrice  in  succession,  the 
name  of  a  great  Roman." 

"  But  what  will  happen?  " 

"  Thou  shalt  see." 

I  reflected.  — "  Divus  Cajus  Julius  Caesar!  " — 
I  suddenly  exclaimed: — "Divus  Cajus  Julius 
Caesar!  "  I  repeated  slowly:  — "  Caesar!  " 

XIII 

Before  the  last  echoes  of  my  voice  had  had  time 
to  die  away  I  heard.  .  .  . 

It  is  difficult  to  say  preciseh'  what.  At  first 
I  heard  a  confused  burst  of  trum])et  notes  and  of 
hand-clapping,  barely  perceptible  to  the  ear,  but 
endlessly  repeated.     It  seemed  as  though  some- 

23 


PHANTOMS 

where,  immensely  far  away,  in  some  bottomless 
abyss,  an  innimierable  throng  were  suddenly  be- 
ginning to  stir,  and  rise,  rise,  undulating  and 
exchanging  barely  audible  shouts,  as  though 
athwart  a  dream,  athwart  an  oppressive  dream 
many  ages  in  duration.  Then  the  air  began  to 
blow  and  darken  above  the  ruin.  .  .  .  Shadows 
began  to  flit  past  me,  myriads  of  shadows,  mil- 
lions of  outlines,  now  rounded  like  helmets,  now 
>  long  like  spears ;  the  rays  of  the  moon  were  shiv- 
V  ered  into  many  bluish  sparks  on  these  spears  and 

^    ^1  helmets— and  the  whole  of  that  army,  that  throng, 
^     -^       moved  nearer  and  nearer,  grew  greater,  surged 
^  miffhtilv.  .  .  .  An  indescribable  effort,  a  tense 

9^  effort  sufficient  to  lift  the  whole  world,  could 

be  felt  in  it ;  but  not  a  single  figure  stood  out  dis- 
tinctly. .  ,  .  And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as 
though  a  tremor  ran  through  it  all,  as  though 
certain  huge  billows  had  surged  back  and  parted. 
....  "  Csesar!  Caesar  venit!  "—rustled  voices 
,  \  like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  upon  which  a  whirl- 
wind has  suddenly  descended  ....  a  dull  shock 
surged  along,  and  a  pallid,  stern  head  in  a  laurel 
wreath,  with  drooping  lids,— the  head  of  the  em- 
peror,—began  slowly  to  move  forward  from  the 
ruin.  .  .  . 

There  are  no  words  of  mortal  tongue  to  ex- 
press the  dread  which  gripped  my  heart.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  if  that  head  were  to  open  its 
eyes,  to  unseal  its  lips,  I  should  fall  dead  on  the 

24 


PHANTOMS 

spot.  — "  Ellis!  "—I  moaned:—"!  do  not  wish 
it,  I  cannot,  I  do  not  want  Rome,  coarse,  menac- 
ing Rome.  .  .  .  Away,  away  from  here!  "  — "  Pu- 

^^sillanimous!  "  —  she  whispered,  and  we  dashed 
headlong  away.  Once  more  I  heard  behind  me 
the  iron  shout  of  the  legions,  like  thunder  now 

c^-^j'  •  •  •  then  all  grew  dark. 

XIV 

"  Look  about  thee,"— said  Ellis  to  me,—"  and 
calm  thyself." 

I  obeyed ;  and  I  remember  that  my  first  impres- 
sion was  so  sweet  that  I  could  only  heave  a  sigh. 
Something  smoky-blue,  silverj^-soft  encompassed 
me  on  every  side.  At  first  I  could  distinguish 
nothing:  that  azure  splendour  blinded  me.  But 
lo!  little  by  little  the  outlines  of  beautiful  moun- 
tains and  forests  began  to  start  forth  before  me; 
a  lake  lay  outspread  before  me,  with  stars  quiv- 
ering in  its  depths,  and  the  caressing  murmur 
of  the  surge.  The  fragrance  of  orange-blossoms 
enveloped  me  in  a  billow,  and  along  with  it,  also 
in  a  billow,  as  it  were,  the  strong,  pure  tones  of 
a  youthful  feminine  voice  reached  my  ears.  That 
fragrance,  those  sounds,  fairly  drew  me  down- 
ward, and  I  began  to  descend  ....  to  descend 
to  a  luxurious  marble  palace,  wliich  gleamed 
white  and  in  friendlywise  amid  a  cypress  grove, 
The  sounds  were  welling  forth  from  its  wide- 

25 


W 


PHANTOMS 

open  windows ;  the  waves  of  the  lake,  dotted  with 
a  (hist  of  liowers,  phishcd  against  its  walls— and 
directly  opposite,  all  clothed  in  the  dark-green 
of  orange-trees  and  laurels,  all  bathed  in  radiant 
mist,  all  studded  with  statues,  slender  columns, 
and  porticoes  of  temples,  a  circular  island  rose 
from  the  bosom  of  tlie  lake.  .  .  . 

"Isola  Bella!  "-said  Ellis.  .  .  .  "  Lago  Mag- 
giore.  .  .  ." 

I  articulated  only:  "Ah!"  and  continued  to 
descend.  The  feminine  voice  rang  out  ever  more 
loudly,  ever  more  clearly  in  the  palace;  I  was  ir- 
resistibly drawn  to  it.  ...  I  wanted  to  gaze  into 
the  face  of  the  songstress  who  was  warbling  such 
strains  on  such  a  night.  We  halted  in  front  of  a 
window. 

In  the  middle  of  a  room  decorated  in  Pom- 
peian  style,  and  more  resembling  an  ancient  tem- 
'ple  than  the  newest  sort  of  a  hall,  surrounded 
by  Greek  statues,  Etruscan  vases,  rare  plants, 
precious  stuffs,  and  lighted  from  above  by  the 
soft  rays  of  two  lamps  enclosed  in  crystal  globes, 
sat  a  young  woman  at  the  piano.  With  her  head 
thrown  slightly  backward,  and  her  eyes  half- 
closed  she  was  singing  an  Italian  aria;  she  was 
singing  and  smiling,  and,  at  the  same  time,  her 
features  were  expressive  of  seriousness,  even  of 
severity  ....  a  sign  of  complete  enjoyment. 
She  smiled  ....  and  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles, 
indolent,  as  young  as  she,  effeminate,  sensual 

26 


PHANTOMS 

also,  seemed  to  be  smiling  at  her  from  one  corner, 
from  behind  the  branches  of  an  oleander,  athwart 
the  thin  smoke  which  rose  from  a  bronze  per- 
fuming-pan  upon  an  antique  tripod.  The  beauty 
was  alone.  Enchanted  by  the  sounds,  the  beauty, 
the  glitter  and  perfume  of  the  night,  shaken  to 
the  very  depths  of  my  soul  by  the  spectacle  of  that 
young,  calm,  brilliant  happiness,  I  totally  for- 
got my  companion,  forgot  in  what  strange  wise 
I  had  become  a  witness  of  that  life  which  was  so 
distant,  so  remote,  so  strange  to  me— and  I 
wanted  to  step  through  the  window,  I  wanted  to 
enter  into  conversation.   .  .  . 

My  whole  body  quivered  from  a  forcible  blow 
—  as  though  I  had  touched  a  Ley  den  jar.     I 
glanced  round.  .  .  .  Ellis's  face  was  gloomy  and^ 
menacing,    despite    all   its   transparency;   wrath  \ 
glowed  dully  in  her  eyes,  which  had  suddenly    I 
been  opened  to  their  full  extent.  .  .  .  — 

"Away!"— she  whispered  furiously;  and 
again  there  was  the  whirlwind  and  gloom  and 
dizziness.  .  .  .  Only  this  time  it  was  not  the 
shout  of  the  legions,  but  the  voice  of  the  song- 
stress, broken  short  off  on  a  high  note,  which 
lingered  in  my  ears.  .  .  . 

We  halted.  A  high  note,  that  same  high  note, 
continued  to  ring  out  and  did  not  cease  to  re- 
sound, although  I  felt  an  entirely  different  air, 
a  different  odour.  .  .  .  Invigorating  freshness 
breathed  upon  me,  as  from  a  great  river,  and 

27 


PHANTOMS 

tliere  was  the  scent  of  hay,  of  smoke,  of  hemp. 
The  lono-drawn  note  was  followed  hy  a  second, 
then  by  a  third,  but  with  such  an  indubitable  shad- 
ino\  such  a  familiar  turn  characteristic  of  my 
native  land,  that  I  immediately  said  to  myself: 
"  That  is  a  Russian  man  singing  a  Russian  song," 
— and  at  that  moment  everything  round  about  me 
grew  clear. 

XV 

We  found  ourselves  above  a  flat  shore.  On  the 
left,  stretched  out,  losing  themselves  in  infinity, 
lay  mowed  meadows,  dotted  with  huge  hay- 
stacks; on  the  right,  to  an  equally  unlimited  ex- 
tent, spread  out  the  level  expanse  of  a  vast  river 
abounding  in  water.  Not  far  from  the  shores 
huge,  dark  barges  were  rocking  quietly  at  an- 
chor, slightly  moving  the  tij^s  of  their  masts  like 
index-fingers.  From  one  of  these  barges  were 
wafted  to  me  the  sounds  of  a  flowing  voice,  and 
on  it  burned  lights,  quivering  and  rocking  in 
the  water  with  their  long,  red  reflections.  Here 
and  there  both  on  the  river  and  in  the  fields  twin- 
kled other  lights  —  the  eye  was  unable  to  discern 
whether  near  at  hand  or  far  away;  now  they 
blinked,  again  they  stood  forth  in  large,  radiant 
spots;  numberless  katydids  shrilled  ceaselessly— 
quite  equal  to  the  frogs  on  the  Pontine  Marshes ; 
and  beneath  the  cloudless,  but  low-hanging,  dark 

28 


PHAXTOMS 

sky  invisible  birds  uttered  their  calls  from  time  to 
time. 

"  Are  we  in  Russia?  "  —  I  asked  Ellis. 

"  This  is  the  Volga,"— she  replied. 

We  soared  along  the  bank.  —  "  Why  hast  thou 
torn  me  thence,  from  that  beautiful  land?"  —  I 
began.  —  "  Wert  thou  envious,  pray?  Did  not 
jealousy  awake  in  thee?  " 

Ellis's  hps  quivered  faintly,  and  a  menace 
again  flashed  in  her  eyes.  .  .  .  But  her  whole 
face  immediately  grew  rigid  once  more. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,"  —  I  said. 

"  Wait,  wait," -replied  EUis.- "  To-night  is 
a  great  night.  It  will  not  soon  return.  Thou 
mayest  be  the  spectator.  .  .  .  Wait." 

And  suddenly  we  flew  across  the  Volga,  in  a 
slanting  direction,  close  above  the  water,  low  and 
abruptly,  like  swallows  before  a  storm.  The 
broad  waves  gurgled  heavily  below  us,  the  keen 
river  wind  beat  us  with  its  cold,  strong  wing  .... 
the  lofty  right  shore  soon  began  to  rise  before 
us  in  the  semi-darkness.  Steep  hills  with  great 
clefts  made  their  appearance.  We  approached 
them. 

"  Shout,  '  Tow-path  men  to  the  prow! '  "  Ellis 
whispered  to  me. 

I  remembered  the  dread  which  I  had  experi- 
enced at  the  appearance  of  the  Roman  spectres, 
I  felt  fatigue  and  a  certain  strange  anguish,  as 
though  my  heart  were  melting  within  me— and 

29 


PHANTOMS 

I  did  not  wish  to  utter  the  fateful  words.  I  knew 
beforeliand  tluit  in  reply  to  them  something  mon- 
strous would  appear,  like  Freiseliiitz,  in  the  Volga 
Valley.  — But  my  li])s  ])arted  against  my  will,  and 
I  shouted  in  a  weak,  strained  voice:  "  Tow-path 
men  to  the  prow!  "i^ 


XVI 

At  first  all  remained  dumb,  as  before  the  Roman 
ruin.  —  But  suddenly  close  to  my  very  ear,  a 
coarse  bark-hauler's  "  laugh  rang  out,  and  some- 
thing fell  with  a  bang  into  the  water  and  began 
to  choke,  ...  I  glanced  round :  no  one  was  any- 
where to  be  seen,  but  an  echo  rebounded  from 
the  shore,  and  instantly  and  from  all  quarters  a 
deafening  uproar  arose.  What  was  there  not  in 
that  chaos  of  sounds!  Shouts  and  whines;  vio- 
lent swearing  and  laughter,  laughter  most  of  all ; 
strokes  of  oars  and  of  axes ;  the  crash  as  of  break- 
ing in  doors  and  chests;  the  creaking  of  rigging 
and  wheels,  and  the  galloping  of  horses;  the 
sound  of  alarm-bells  and  the  clanking  of  chains; 
the  rumble  and  roar  of  conflagrations,  drunken 
songs  and  interchange  of  hurried  speech;  incon- 
solable, despairing  weeping,  and  imperious  ex- 

^  According  to  tradition,  this  was  the  war-cry  of  the  Volga  bri;j;^aiuls 
when  they  captured  vessels. —Tn a ksi.ator. 

2  Before  the  introduction  of  steamers  on  the  Volga,  all  vessels  were 
hauled  up-stream  from  Astrakhan  to  Nizhni-Novgorod— or  even  fur- 
ther—by men  walking  along  the  tow-paths  on  the  shore.  — Thanslator. 

30 


PHANTOMS 

clamations;  the  death-rattle,  and  audacious  whis- 
thng;  the  yelhng  and  tramphng  of  the  dance.  .  .  . 
"Beat!  Hang!  Drown!  Cut  his  throat !  That's 
fine!  That  's  fine!  So!  Show  no  pity!  "—were 
distinctly  audible;  even  the  broken  breathing  of 
panting  men  was  audible;  —  and  nevertheless, 
evervwhere  round  about,  as  far  as  the  eve  could 
see,  nothing  came  into  sight,  nothing  underwent 
any  change.  The  river  flowed  past  mysteriously, 
almost  morosely;  the  very  shore  seemed  more  de- 
serted and  wild  than  before — that  was  all. 

I  turned  to  Ellis,  but  she  laid  her  finger  on  her 
lips.  .  .  . 

"  Stepan  Timofeitch!  Stepan  Timofeitch  is] 
coming!  "  —  arose  a  rustling  round  about; — "  our 
dear  little  father  is  coming,  our  ataman,  our 
nourisher!  "  —  As  before,  I  saw  no  one,  but  it 
suddenly  seemed  to  me  as  though  a  huge  body 
were  moving  straight  at  me.  ..."  Frolka! 
Where  art  thou,  dog?" — thundered  a  terrible 
voice.  — "  Set  fire  on  all  sides — and  put  them 
under  the  axe,  my  little  White-hands!  "  ^ 

The  heat  of  a  flame  close  at  hand  breathed 
u})on  me,  and  the  bitter  reek  of  smoke, — and  at 
the  same  moment  something  warm,  like  blood, 
spattered  upon  my  face  and  hands.  .  .  .  Wild 
laughter  roared  round  about.  .  .  . 

•The  bandit  chief,  generally  known  in  history  as  Stenka  Rdzin 
and  I'rol  or  Frrtlka,  his  younjfcr  brother  and  inseparable  companion, 
captured  and  laid  waste  jfrcat  stretches  of  the  N'oljja.  'I'lieir  mem- 
ory still  lives  in  epic~Ballads  and  among  the  peasants. —Tuansi^vtok. 

81 


•^ 


PITAXTOIMS 

I  lost  consciousness,  and  when  I  recovered  my 
senses,  Kllis  and  I  were  slippin^T^  along  the  famil- 
iar verge  of  my  forest,  straight  toward  the  old 
oak-tree.  .  .  . 

"  Seest  thou  yonder  path?  " — Ellis  said  to  me, 
— "  yonder  where  the  moon  is  shining  dimly  and 
two  small  hirch-trees  are  hending  over?  .  .  .  Dost 
thou  wish  to  go  thither?  " 

But  I  felt  so  shattered  and  exhausted,  that  in 
reply  I  could  say  only : — "  Home. . . .  home! "  . . . . 

"  Thou  art  at  home," — answered  Ellis. 

In  fact,  I  was  standing  in  front  of  the  door  of 
my  house — alone.  P211is  had  vanished.  The 
watch-dog  was  about  to  approach,  glared  suspi- 
ciously at  me — and  fled  howling. 

With  difficulty  I  dragged  myself  to  my  bed, 
and  fell  asleep,  without  undressing. 

XVII 

On  the  following  morning  I  had  a  headache,  and 
could  hardly  move  my  feet;  but  I  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  my  bodily  indisposition.  I  was  gnawed 
by  penitence,  stifled  with  vexation. 

I  was  extremely  displeased  with  myself.  "  Pu- 
sillanimous! " —  I  kept  repeatirilg  incessantly:  — 
"  Yes-Ellis  is  right.  What  did  I  fear?  How 
could  I  fail  to  profit  by  the  opportunity?  .... 
I  might  have  beheld  Caesar  himself— and  I 
swooned  with  terror,  I  squealed,  I  turned  away, 

32 


PHAXTOMS 

like  a  child  from  the  rod.  Well,  Razin — that  is 
quite  a  different  matter.  In  my  quality  of  noble- 
man and  land-owner  ....  However,  what  was 
the  actual  cause  of  my  fright  in  that  case  also? 
Pusillanimous,  pusillanimous!"  .... 

"  But  is  it  not  in  a  dream  that  I  am  seeing  all 
this?"  — I  asked  myself  at  last.  I  called  my 
housekeeper. 

"  ]SIarfa,  at  what  time  did  I  go  to  bed  last 
night? — dost  thou  remember?  " 

"  Why,  who  knows,  my  benefactor.  .  .  .  Late, 
I  think.  In  the  gloaming  thou  didst  leave  the 
house;  and  thou  were  clattering  thy  heels  in  thy 
bedroom  after  michiight.  Just  before  dawn  — 
yes.  And  this  is  the  third  day  it  has  been  like 
that.  Evidently,  something  has  happened  to 
worry  thee." 

"Ehe-he!"  — I  thought.  —  "There  can  be  no 
doubt  as  to  the  flying."  — "  Well,  and  how  do  I 
look  to-day?  "  —  I  added  aloud. 

"  How  dost  thou  look?  Let  me  look  at  thee. 
Thy  cheeks  are  somewhat  sunken.  And  thou  art 
pale,  my  nourisher;  there  now,  there  is  n't  a  drop 
of  })l()od  in  thy  face." 

I  winced  slightly.  ...   I  dismissed  Marfa. 

"If  thdu  goest  on  like  this  thou  wilt  surely  die 
or  lose  thy  mind,"  — I  reasoned,  as  I  sat  meditat- 
ing by  the  window.  "  I  must  abandon  all  this. 
It  is  dangerous.  And,  here  now,  how  strangely 
my  heart  is  beating!     iVnd  when  I  am  flying,  it 

88 


PHANTOMS 

constantly  seems  to  me  as  tlioiigh  some  one  were 
sucking  it,  or  as  though  something  were  seeping 
out  of  it  — like  the  spring  sap  from  a  hirch,  if  you 
thrust  an  axe  into  it.  And  yet  I  feel  sorry.  And 
there  is  Ellis.  .  .  .  She  is  playing  with  me  as  a 
cat  plays  with  a  mouse  ....  but  it  is  unlikely 
that  she  wishes  anj''  evil  to  me.  I  '11  surrender 
myself  to  her  for  the  last  time— I  '11  gaze  my  fill 
—  and  then.  .  .  .  But  what  if  she  is  drinking  my 
blood?  This  is  terrible.  Moreover,  such  swift 
motion  cannot  fail  to  be  injurious;  they  say  that 
on  the  railways  in  England  it  is  forbidden  to  go 
more  than  one  hundred  and  twenty  versts  an 
hour.  .  .  ." 

Thus  did  I  meditate— but  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
evening  I  was  already  standing  before  the  aged 
oak. 

XVIII 

The  night  was  cold,  dim,  and  grey;  there  was  a 
scent  of  rain  in  the  air.  To  my  surprise,  I  found 
no  one  under  the  oak;  I  made  the  circuit  of  it 
several  times,  walked  as  far  as  the  verge  of  the 
forest,  and  returned,  staring  assiduously  into  the 
darkness.  .  .  .  Everything  was  deserted.  I 
waited  a  while,  then  uttered  Ellis's  name  several 
times  in  succession,  with  ever-increasing  loud- 
ness ....  but  she  did  not  show  herself.  I  was 
seized  with  sadness,  almost  with  anguish ;  my  f or- 

U 


PHANTOMS 

mer  apprehensions  vanished ;  I  could  not  reconcile 
myself  to  the  thought  that  my  companion  would 
never  return  to  me. 

"Ellis!  Elhs!  Do  come!  Wilt  thou  not 
come?  "  —  I  shouted  for  the  last  time. 

A  crow  which  had  been  awakened  by  my  voice 
suddenly  began  to  fidget  about  in  the  crest  of  a 
neighbouring  tree,  and  becoming  entangled  in 
the  branches,  set  to  flapping  its  wings.  .  .  .  But 
Ellis  did  not  appear. 

With  drooping  head  I  wended  my  way  home- 
ward. Ahead  of  me  the  willows  on  the  dam  stood 
out  in  a  black  mass,  and  the  light  in  the  window 
of  my  room  twinkled  among  the  apple-trees  of 
the  garden,  — twinkled  and  vanished,  like  the  eye 
of  a  man  watching  me,  — when  suddenly  the  faint 
swish  of  swiftly-cloven  air  became  audible  be- 
hind me,  and  something  with  one  swoop  embraced 
and  seized  hold  of  me  from  below  upward :  that  is 
the  way  a  buzzard  seizes,  "  smashes  "  a  quail.  .  .  . 
It  was  Ellis  who  had  flown  u])on  me.  I  felt  her 
cheek  on  my  cheek,  the  girdle  of  her  arms  aroimd 
my  body— and  like  a  keen  chill  the  whisper  of  her 
mouth  pierced  m}^  ear:  "  Here  am  I!  "  I  was  si- 
multaneously alarmed  and  deliglited.  .  .  .  We 
floated  off*  not  far  above  the  ground. 

"Thou  (hdst  not  mean  to  come  to-day?"  — I 
said. 

"  But  thou  didst  langiiisli  for  me!  Thou  lovest 
me?    Oh,  thou  art  mine!  " 

'        85 


PHANTOMS 

Ellis's  last  words  disconcerted  me.  ...  I  did 
not  know  what  to  say. 

"  I  was  detained,"  —  she  went  on; — "  they  setj|. 
guard  over  me." 

"  Who  could  detain  thee?  " 

"  Whither  dost  thou  wish  to  go?  "  —  queried 
Ellis,  not  replying  to  my  question,  as  usual. 

"  Carry  me  to  Italy,  to  that  lake— dost  thou 
rememher?  " 

Ellis  drew  hack  a  little  and  shook  her  head  in 
negation.  Then  for  the  first  time  did  I  perceive 
that  she  had  ceased  to  be  transparent.  And  her 
face  seemed  to  have  grown  rosy;  a  crimson  flush 
spread  over  its  cloudy  whiteness.  I  looked  into 
her  eyes  ....  and  dread  came  upon  me:  in 
those  eyes  something  was  moving — with  the 
slow,  unceasing  and  vicious  motion  of  a  serpent 
which  has  coiled  itself  and,  congealed  in  that 
position,  is  beginning  to  grow  warm  in  the 
sunshine. 

"  Ellis!  "-I  exclaimed:— "Who  art  thou? 
Tell  me,  who  art  thou?  " 

Ellis  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

I  w^s  vexed.  ...  I  wanted  to  punish  her;  — 
and  suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  to  order  her  to 
carry  me  to  Paris.  "  That 's  where  thou  wilt  have 
occasion  for  jealousy,"— I  thought.  — "  Ellis!  " 
—  I  said  aloud;—"  thou  art  not  afraid  of  large 
cities,  Paris,  for  example,  art  thou?  " 

"  No." 

36 


PHANTOMS 

"  No  ?  Xot  even  of  those  places  where  it  is 
bright,  as  on  the  boulevards?  " 

"  That  is  not  the  liffht  of  day." 

"  Very  good ;  then  carry  me  immediately  to  the 
Boulevard  des  Italiens." 

Ellis  threw  over  my  head  the  end  of  her  long, 
flowing  sleeve.  I  was  immediately  enveloped  in 
a  sort  of  M'hite  mist,  with  a  soporific  scent  of 
poppies.  Everything  disappeared  instantane- 
ously; all  light,  all  sound  — and  almost  conscious- 
ness itself.  The  sensation  of  life  alone  remained 
— and  it  was  not  unpleasant.  Suddenly  the  mist 
vanished;  Ellis  had  removed  her  sleeve  from  my 
head,  and  I  beheld  before  me  a  huge  mass  of 
buildings  crowded  together,  brilliancy,  move- 
ment, din.  .  .  .  I  beheld  Paris,    i    be/ic   o    f^/atAC^^ 

XIX  /^  Maf 

I  HAD  been  in  Paris  before,  and  therefore  imme- 
diately recognised  the  spot  to  which  Ellis  had 
shaped  her  course.  It  was  the  garden  of  tlie 
Tuileries,  with  its  aged  chestnut-trees,  iron 
fences,  fortress-moat,  and  beast-like  Zouaves  on 
guard.  Passing  the  palace,  passing  the  Church 
of  St.  Rocli,  on  whose  steps  the  first  Napoleon 
shed  French  blood  for  the  first  time,  we  lialted 
high  above  the  Boulevard  des  Itahens,  where  the 
third  Napoleon  did  the  same  thing,  and  with 
ecjual  succes'S.    Crowds  of  people  — young  and  old 

37 


PHANTOMS 

dandies,  workmen,  women  in  sumptuous  attire — 
were  thronging  the  sidewalks;  the  gilded  restau- 
rants and  cafes  were  blazing  with  lights,  car- 
riages of  all  sorts  and  aspects  were  driving  up 
and  down  the  boulevard;  everything  was  fairly 
seething  and  glittering,  in  every  direction,  where- 
ever  the  eye  fell.  .  .  .  But,  strange  to  say,  I  did 
not  feel  like  quitting  my  pure,  dark,  airy  height; 
I  did  not  wish  to  approach  that  human  ant-hill. 
It  seemed  as  though  a  hot,  oppressive,  copper- 
coloured  exhalation  rose  up  thence,  not  precisely 
fragrant,  nor  yet  precisely  stinking;  a  very  great 
deal  of  life  had  been  collected  there  in  one  heap. 
I  wavered.  .  .  .  But  now  the  voice  of  a  street- 
courtesan,  sharp  as  the  screech  of  iron  rails,  sud- 
denly was  wafted  to  my  ear;  like  a  naked  blade 
it  thrust  itself  out  upward,  that  voice;  it  stung 
me  like  the  fangs  of  a  viper.  I  immediately  pic- 
tured to  myself  the  stony,  greedy,  flat  Parisian 
face,  with  high  cheek-bones,  the  eyes  of  a  usurer, 
rouge,  powder,  curled  hair,  and  a  bouquet  of 
bright-hued  artificial  flowers  on  the  high-peaked 
hat,  the  scraped  nails  in  the  shape  of  claws,  the 
monstrous  crinoline.  ...  I  pictured  to  myself 
also  a  steppe-dweller  like  myself  pursuing  the 
venal  doll  with  detestable  tripping  gait.  ...  I 
pictured  to  myself  how,  confused  to  the  point  of 
rudeness,  and  lisping  with  his  efforts,  he  en- 
deavours to  imitate  in  his  manners  the  waiters  at 
Vefour's,  squeals,  keeps  on  the  alert,  wheedles— 

38 


PHANTOMS 

and  a  feeling  of  loathing  took  possession  of  me. 
.  .  .  .  "  Xo," — I  thought, — "  Ellis  will  have  no 
occasion  to  feel  jealous  here.  .  .  ." 

In  the  meantime,  I  noticed  that  we  were  begin- 
ning gradually  to  descend.  .  .  .  Paris  rose  to 
meet  us  with  all  its  din  and  reek.  .  .  . 

"  Halt!  "—I  turned  to  Ellis.  —  "  Dost  thou  not 
find  it  stifling  here,  oppressive?  " 

"  It  was  thou  thyself  who  asked  me  to  bring 
thee  hither." 

"  I  was  wrong,  I  recall  my  w^ord.  Carry  me 
away,  Ellis,  I  entreat  thee.  Just  as  I  thought: 
yonder  goes  Prince  Kulmametoff ,  hobbling  along 
the  boulevard ;  and  his  friend  Baraksin  is  waving 
his  hand  at  him  and  crying:  '  Ivan  Stepanitch, 
allons  soupcr,  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  engage 
Rigolbosch  itself!'  Carry  me  away  from  these 
^labilles  and  ^Maisons  Dores,  away  from  fops, 
both  male  and  female,  from  the  Jockej^  Club  and 
Figaro,  from  the  closely-clipped  soldiers'  heads 
and  the  jiolished  barracks,  from  the  serpents  de 
ville  with  their  goatees  and  the  glasses  of  turbid 
absinthe,  from  the  players  of  domino  in  the  cafes 
and  the  gamblers  on  'Cliange,  from  the  bits  of  red 
ribbon  in  tlie  buttonhole  of  the  coat  and  the 
buttonhole  of  the  overcoat,  from  Monsieur  de 
Foi,  the  inventor  of  '  the  speciality  of  wed- 
dings,' and  from  tlie  free  consultations  of  Dr. 
Cliarlcs  Albert,  from  liberal  lectures  and  "overn- 
mental  pamphlets,  from  Parisian  comedies  and 

.•39 


rilxVNTOMS 

Parisian  operas  and  Parisian  ignorance.  .  .  . 
Away!    Away!    Away!" 

"Look  down,"— Ellis  answered  me: — "thou 
art  no  longer  over  Paris." 

I  lowered  my  eyes.  ...  It  was  a  fact.  A  dark 
})lain,  here  and  there  intersected  by  whitish  lines 
of  roads,  was  running  swiftly  past  beneath  us, 
and  only  behind,  on  the  horizon,  like  the  glow 
of  a  huge  conflagration,  the  reflection  of  the  in- 
numerable lights  of  the  world's  capital  throbbed 
upward. 

XX 

Again  a  veil  fell  across  my  eyes.  .  .  .  Again  I 
lost  consciousness.     It  dispersed  at  last. 

What  was  that  yonder,  below?  What  park 
was  that  with  avenues  of  clipped  lindens,  isolated 
spruce-trees  in  the  form  of  parasols,  with  porti- 
coes and  temples  in  the  Pompadour  taste,  and 
statues  of  nymphs  and  satyrs  of  the  Bernini 
school,  and  rococo  Tritons  in  the  centre  of  curv- 
ing ponds,  rimmed  by  low  balustrades  of  black- 
ened marble?  Is  it  not  Versailles?  No,  it  is  not 
Versailles.  A  small  palace,  also  in  rococo  style, 
peers  forth  from  clumps  of  curly  oak-trees.  The 
moon  shines  dimly,  enveloped  in  a  haze,  and  an 
extremely  delicate  smoke  seems  to  be  spread  over 
the  earth.  The  eye  cannot  distinguish  what  it  is : 
moonlight  or  fog.    Yonder  on  one  of  the  ponds 

40 


PHAXTOMS 

a  swan  is  sleeping;  its  long  back  gleams  white, 
like  the  snow  of  the  steppes  gripped  by  the  frost, 
and  yonder  the  glow-worms  are  burning  like  dia- 
monds in  the  bluish  shadow  at  the  foot  of  the 
statues. 

"  We  are  close  to  Mannheim,"— said  Ellis. — 
■"  That  is  the  Schwetzingen  Park." 

"  So  we  are  in  German}',"— I  thought,  and  be- 
gan to  listen.  Everything  was  dumb;  only 
somewhere  a  slender  stream  of  falling  water  was 
plashing  and  babbling,  isolated  and  invisible.  It 
seemed  to  be  repeating  the  same  words  over  and 
over  again:  "  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  always  "  yes."  And 
suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  in  the  very 
middle  of  one  of  the  avenues,  between  the  walls 
of  shorn  greenery,  affectedly  offering  his  arm 
to  a  lady  in  T)owdered  coiffure  and  a  gay-coloured 
farthingale,  there  stepped  forth  on  his  red  heels 
a  cavalier  in  a  golden  coat  and  lace  cuffs,  with 
a  light,  steel  sword  on  his  hip.  .  .  .  They  were 
strange,  pale  figures.  ...  I  wanted  to  get  a 
look  at  tliem.  .  .  .  But  everything  had  van- 
ished, and  only  the  water  babbled  on  as  before. 

"  Those  are  dreams  roaming  abroad," — whis- 
])ered  Elhs.  — "  Yesterday  a  great  deal  might 
liave  been  seen  — a  great  deal.  To-day  even 
dreams  shun  the  eye  of  mortal  man.    On!    On!  " 

We  soared  upward  and  flew  further.  So 
smooth  and  even  was  our  flight  that  we  did  not 
seem  to  be  moving,  but  everj'thing,  on  the  con- 

41 


PHANTOMS 

trary,  appeared  to  be  coming  toward  us.  Moun- 
tains made  their  appearance,  dark,  undulating, 
covered  with  forests;  they  augmented  and  floated 
toward  us.  .  .  .  Now  they  are  already  flowing 
past  beneath  us,  with  all  their  sinuosities,  ravines, 
narrow  meadows,  with  the  flery  points  in  the 
slumbering  villages  along  the  swift  rivers  at  the 
bottom  of  the  valleys ;  and  ahead  of  us  again  other 
mountains  loom  up  and  float  past.  .  .  .  We  are 
in  the  heart  of  the  Schwarzwald. 

JNIountains,  nothing  but  mountains  ....  and 
forest,  the  splendid,  old,  mighty  forest.  The 
night  sky  is  clear;  I  can  recognise  every  variety 
of  tree;  especially  magnificent  are  the  firs  with 
their  straight,  white  trunks.  Here  and  there  on 
the  borders  of  the  forests  chamois  are  to  be  seen ; 
stately  and  alert  they  stand  on  their  slender  legs 
and  listen,  with  their  heads  finely  turned,  and 
their  large,  trumpet-shaped  ears  pricked  up.  The 
ruin  of  a  tow^er  sadly  and  blindly  displays  on  a 
peak  of  naked  crag  its  half -demolished  battle- 
ments; above  the  ancient,  forgotten  stones  a 
golden  star  glows  peacefully.  Froin  a  small,  al- 
most black  lake,  the  moaning  croak  of  tiny  frogs 
rises  up  like  a  wail.  I  seem  to  hear  other  sounds, 
long,  languid,  like  the  sounds  of  a  golden  harp. 
....  Here  it  is,  the  land  of  legend !  That  same  deli- 
cate shimmer  of  moonlight  which  had  impressed 
me  at  Schwetzingen  is  here  disseminated  every- 
where, and  the  further  the  mountains  stand  apart 

42 


PHAXTOMS 

the  thicker  does  that  smoke  become.  I  distinguish 
five,  six,  ten,  different  tones  of  the  different 
layers  of  shadow  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains, 
and  over  the  silent  diversity  pensively  reigns  the 
moon.  The  air  ripples  on  softly  and  lightly.  I 
feel  at  ease  and  in  a  mood  of  lofty  composure  and 
melancholy  as  it  were 

"  Ellis,  thou  must  love  this  land!  " 

"  I  love  nothing.." 

"  How  is  that?    And  how  about  me?  " 

"  Yes  ....  thee!  "  —  she  replies  indifferently. 

It  strikes  me  that  her  arm  clasps  my  waist  more 
closely  than  before. 

"On!  On!"— says  Ellis,  with  a  sort  of  cold 
enthusiasm. 

"  On!  "-I  repeat. 

XXI 

A  MIGHTY  fluctuating,  ringing  cry  suddenly  re- 
sounded overhead  and  was  immediately  repeated 
a  little  way  in  advance. 

"  Those  are  belated  cranes  flying  to  your  land, 
to  tlie  north,"— said  Ellis:  — "  wouldst  thou  like 
to  join  them?  " 

"  Yes,  yes!  raise  me  to  them." 

We  soared  upward  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  found  ourselves  alongside  of  the  flock  which 
had  flown  past. 

The  huge,  handsome  birds   (there  were  thirty 

id 


PHANTOMS 

of  tlicin  in  all)  were  flying  in  a  wedge  form  ab- 
ruptly and  rarely  flapping  their  inflated  wings. 
AVith  head  and  legs  intently  ahead  and  breast 
thrust  sternly  forward,  they  were  forging  on- 
ward, and  that  so  swiftly  that  the  air  whistled 
around  them.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  such  hot, 
strong  life,  such  unflinching  will,  at  such  a  height, 
at  such  a  distance  from  all  living  things.  With- 
out ceasing  triumpliantl}'^  to  plough  their  way 
througli  s])ace  the  cranes  exchanged  calls,  from 
time  to  time,  with  their  conu'ades  in  the  van- 
guard, with  their  leader;  and  there  was  something 
proud,  dignified,  something  invincibly  confident 
in  those  loud  cries,  in  the  conversation  under  the 
clouds.  "  We  shall  fly  to  our  goal,  never  fear, 
however  difficult  it  may  be,"  they  seemed  to  be 
saying,  encouraging  one  another. 

And  at  this  point  it  occurred  to  me  that 
there  are  very  few  people  in  Russia — why  do  I 
say  in  Russia? — in  the  whole  world — like  those 
birds. 

"  We  are  now  flying  to  Russia,"— said  Ellis. 
This  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  noticed  that  she 
almost  always  knew  what  I  was  thinking  about. — 
"  Dost  thou  wish  to  return?  " 

"  Let  us  return  ....  or,  no!  I  have  been  in 
Paris;  take  me  to  Petersburg." 

"Now?"  ^ ' 

"  This  instant.  .  .  .  Only  cover  my  head  with 
thy  veil  or  I  shall  become  dizzy." 

44 


PHAXTOMS 

Ellis  raised  her  arm  ....  but  before  the  mist 
enveloped  me  I  felt  on  my  lips  the  touch  of  that 
soft,,  dull  sting.  .  .  . 

XXII 

"  At-te-e-e-e-ention  !  " — a  prolonged  cry  re- 
sounded in  my  ears.  "  At-te-e-e-e-ention!  "  came 
the  response,  as  though  in  despair,  from  the  dis- 
tance. "At-te-e-e-e-ention!"  died  away  some- 
where at  the  end  of  the  world.  I  started.  A  lofty 
golden  spire  met  my  eye :  I  recognised  the  Peter- 
Paul  Fortress. 

A  pale,  northern  night!  Yes,  but  was  it  night? 
"Was  it  not  a  pale,  ailing  day?  I  have  never  liked 
the  Petersburg  nights;  but  this  time  I  was  even 
terrified:  Ellis's  form  disappeared  entirely, 
melted  like  the  mist  of  morning  in  the  July  sun, 
and  I  clearly  descried  her  whole  body  as  it  hung 
heavily  and  alone  on  a  level  with  the  Alexander 
column.  So  tliis  was  Petersburg!  Yes,  it  reallj'' 
was.  Those  broad,  empty,  grey  streets;  those 
greyish-white,  yellowish-grey,  greyisli-lilac,  stuc- 
coed and  peeling  houses  with  their  sunken  win? 
dows,  brilliant  sign-boards,  iron  pavilions  over 
their  porclies,  and  nasty  little  vegetable-shops; 
those  fa(,'ades;  those  inscriptions,  sentry-boxes, 
watering-troughs;  the  golden  caj)  of  St.  Isaac's 
Cathedral;  tlie  useless,  motley  Exchange;  the 
granite    walls   of   the   fortress   and    the    broken 

4.5 


PHANTOMS 

wooden  pavement ;  those  barks  laden  with  hay  and 
firewood ;  that  odour  of  dust,  cabbage,  bast-mat- 
ting and  stables;  those  petrified  yard-porters  in 
sheepskin  coats  at  the  gates,  those  cab-drivers 
curled  up  in  death-like  sleep  on  their  rickety 
carriages,  —  yes,  it  was  she,  our  Northern  Pal- 
myra. Everything  was  visible  round  about; 
everything  was  clear,  painfully  clear  and  distinct; 
everything  was  sleeping  mournfully,  strangely 
heaped  up  and  outlined  in  the  dimly-transparent 
air.  The  glow  of  sunset — a  consumptive  glow — 
has  not  yet  departed,  and  will  not  depart  until 
morning  from  the  white,  starless  sk)\  It  lies  on 
the  silky  surface  of  the  Neva,  and  the  river  barely 
murmurs  and  barely  undulates  as  it  hastens  on' 
ward  its  cold,  blue  waters.  .  .  . 

"  Let  us  fly  away," — pleaded  Ellis. 

And,  without  awaiting  my  answer,  she  bore  me 
across  the  Neva,  across  the  Palace  Square,  to  the 
Liteinaya.  Footsteps  and  voices  were  audible  be- 
low :  along  the  street  a  cluster  of  young  men  were 
walking  with  drink-sodden  faces  and  discussing 
dancing-classes.  "  Sub-lieutenant  StolpakofF  the 
seventh!  "  suddenly  cried  out  in  his  sleep  a  soldier, 
who  was  standing  on  guard  at  the  pyramid  of 
rust}'^  cannon-balls,^  and  a  little  further  on,  at  the 
open  window  of  a  tall  house  I  caught  sight  of  a 
young  girl  in  a  crumpled  silk  gown  without 
sleeves,  with  a  pearl  net  on  her  hair  and  a  ciga- 

*  At  the  Artillery  Barracks. — Translator. 

46 


i 


PHANTOMS 

rette  in  her  mouth.  She  was  devoutly  perusirg  a 
book:  it  was  the  work  of  one  of  the  most  recent 
Juvenals. 

"  Let  us  fly  on!  "—I  said  to  ElHs. 

A  minute  more,  and  the  httle  forests  of  decay r, 
ing  spruce-trees  and  mossy  swamps  which  sur- 
round Petersburg  were  flitting  past  us.  We 
directed  our  course  straight  for  the  south ;  sky  and 
earth  gradually  grew  darker  and  darker.  The 
diseased  night,  the  diseased  day,  the  diseased  city 
—  all  were  left  behind. 

XXIII 

We  flew  more  slowly  than  usual,  and  I  was  able  to 
watch  how  the  broad  expanse  of  my  native  land 
unrolled  before  me  like  a  series  of  interminable 
panoramas.  Forests,  bushes,  fields,  ravines,  riv- 
ers— now  and  then  villages  and  churches — and 
then  again  fields,  and  forests,  and  bushes,  and  ra- 
vines. ...  I  grew  melancholy,  —  and  melancholy  in 
an  indiff'erent  sort  of  way,  somehow.  And  I 
was  not  melancholy  and  bored  because  we  were 
flying  over  Russia  in  particular.  Xo!  The  land 
itself,  that  flat  surface  which  spread  out  beneath 
me;  the  whole  earthly  globe  with  its  inhabitants, 
transitory,  imi)otent,  ciiished  by  want,  by  sorrow, 
by  diseases,  fettered  to  a  clod  of  contem])tible 
earth;  that  rough,  brittle  crust,  that  excrescence 
on  the  fiery  grain  of  sand  of  our  planet,  on  which 

47 


PHANTOMS 

has  broken  out  a  mould  dignified  by  us  with  the 
appelhition  of  the  organic,  vegetable  kingdom; 
those  men-flies,  a  thousand  times  more  insignifi- 
cant than  flies;  their  huts  stuck  together  out  of 
mud,  the  tiny  traces  of  their  petty,  monotonous 
})other,  their  amusing  struggles  with  the  un- 
changeable and  the  inevitable, — how  loathsome 
all  this  suddenly  became  to  me !  My  heart  slowly 
grew  nauseated,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  gaze  any 
longer  at  those  insignificant  pictures,  at  that  stale 
exhibition. . .  Yes,  I  felt  bored — worse  than  bored. 
I  did  not  even  feel  compassion  for  my  fellow- 
men  :  all  emotions  within  me  were  drowned  in  one 
which  I  hardly  venture  to  name:  in  a  feeling  of 
aversion;  and  that  aversion  was  strongest  of  all 
and  most  of  all  toward  myself. 

"  Stop,"— Avhispered  Ellis:—"  Stop,  or  I  will 
not  carry  thee.    Thou  art  becoming  heavy." 

"  Go  home." — I  replied  in  the  same  sort  of  a 
tone  with  which  I  was  accustomed  to  utter  those 
words  to  my  coachman  on  emerging,  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  from  the  houses  of  my 
Moscow  friends  with  whom  I  had  been  discussing 
the  future  of  Russia  and  the  significance  of  the 
commune  ever  since  dinner.  —  "  Go  home," — I  re- 
peated, and  closed  my  eyes. 


48 


PHANTOMS 


XXIV 


But  I  speedily  opened  them  again.  Ellis  was 
pressing  against  me  in  a  strange  sort  of  way ;  she 
was  almost  pushing  me.  I  looked  at  her,  and  the 
blood  curdled  in  my  veins.  Any  one  who  has; 
chanced  to  behold  on  the  face  of  another  a  sudden 
expression  of  profound  terror  the  cause  of  which 
he  does  not  suspect,  will  understand  me.  Terror, 
harassing  terror,  contorted,  distorted  the  pale, 
almost  obliterated  features  of  Ellis.  I  have  never 
beheld  anything  like  it  even  on  a  living  human 
face.  A  hfeless,  shadowy  phantom,  a  shadow 
and  that  swooning  terror  .... 

"  Ellis,  what  ails  thee?  "—I  said  at  last. 

"  'T  is  she  .  .  .  .  't  is  she "  she  replied  with 

an  effort; — "  't  is  she!  " 

"She?    Who  is  she?" 

"  Do  not  name  her,  do  not  name  her," — hur- 
riedly stammered  Ellis.  —  "  We  must  flee,  or  there 
will  be  an  end  to  all— and  forever.  .  .  .  Look: 
yonder! " 

T  turned  my  head  in  the  direction  which  she  in- 
dicated to  me  with  trcmbhng  hand,  — and  saw 
something  ....  something  really  frightful. 

This  something  was  all  the  more  frightful  be- 
cause it  had  no  definite  form.  Something  hea\y, 
gloomy,  yellowish-black  in  hue,  mottled  like  the 
belly  of  a  lizard,  — not  a  storm-cloud,  and  not 

49 


PHANTOMS 

smoke,— was  moving  over  the  earth  with  a  slow, 
serpentine  motion.  A  measured,  wide-reaching 
unduhition  downward  and  upward, — an  undu- 
hition  which  reminded  one  of  the  ominous  sweep 
of  the  wings  of  a  hird  of  prey,  when  it  is  in 
search  of  its  booty;  at  times  an  inexpressibly  re- 
volting swooping  down  to  the  earth, — that  is  the" 
way  a  spider  swoops  down  to  the  captured  fly. 
....  Who  art  thou,  what  art  thou,  threatening 
mass?  Under  its  influence — I  saw  it,  I  felt  it — 
everything  was  annihilated,  everything  grew 
dumb.  ...  A  rotten,  pestilential  odour  emanated 
from  it — and  a  chill  that  caused  the  heart  to  grow 
sick,  and  made  things  grow  dark  before  the  eyes, 
and  the  hair  to  stand  on  end.  It  was  a  power 
which  was  advancing;  —  the  power  which  cannot 
be  resisted,  to  which  all  are  subject,  which,  with- 
out sight,  without  form,  without  thought,  sees 
everything,  knows  everything,  and  like  a  bird  of 
prey  chooses  out  its  victims,  like  a  serpent  crushes 
them  and  licks  them  with  its  chilly  sting.~.  .  .' 

"  Ellis!  Ellis!  "—I  shrieked  like  a  madman.— 
"  That  is  Death!    Death  itself!  " 

The  wailing  sound  which  I  had  already  heard, 
burst  from  Ellis's  mouth— this  time  it  bore  more 
resemblance  to  a  despairing,  human  scream — and 
we  dashed  away.  But  our  flight  was  strange  and 
frightfully  uneven;  Ellis  kept  turning  somer- 
saults in  the  air;  she  fell  downward,  she  threw 
herself  from  side  to  side,  like  a  partridge  which 

50 


PHAXTOMS 

is  mortally  wounded,  or  which  is  desirous  of  lur- 
ing the  hound  away  from  her  brood.  And  yet, 
long,  wavy  offshoots,  separating  themselves  from 
the  inexpressibly-dreadful  mass,  rolled  after  us, 
like  outstretched  arms,  like  claws.  .  .  .  The  huge 
form  of  a  muffled  figure  on  a  pale  horse  rose  up 
for  one  moment,  and  soared  up  to  the  very  sk3\ 
.  .  .  .  Still  more  agitatedly,  still  more  despair- 
ingly did  Ellis  throw  herself  about.  "  She  has 
seen  me!  All  is  over!  I  am  lost!"  ....  her 
broken  whisper  became  audible.  "  Oh,  unhappy 
one  that  I  am!  I  might  have  enjoyed,  I  might 
have  acquired  life  ....  but  now  ....  Anni- 
hilation, annihilation !  " 

This  was  too  unbearable.  ...  I  lost  conscious- 
ness. 


XXV 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  lying  prone  upon 
the  grass,  and  felt  a  dull  pain  all  through  my 
body,  as  though  from  a  severe  injury.  Dawn 
was  breaking  in  the  sky:  I  was  able  to  distinguish 
objects  clearly.  Xot  far  away,  along  the  edge 
of  a  birch-coppice,  ran  a  road  fringed  with  wil- 
lows; the  surroundings  seemed  familiar  to  me. 
I  began  to  recall  what  had  happened  to  me, — 
and  I  shuddered  all  over,  as  soon  as  the  last,  mon- 
strous vision  recurred  to  my  mind.  .  .  . 

51 


PITAXTOMS 

"But  of  what  was  Ellis  afraid?"  I  thought. 
"  Can  it  be  possible  that  she  also  is  subject  to  its 
power?  Can  it  be  that  she  is  not  immortal?  Can 
it  be  that  she  is  doomed  to  annihilation,  to  de- 
struction?   How  is  that  possible?  " 

A  soft  moan  resounded  close  at  hand.  I  turned 
my  head.  Two  paces  distant  from  me  lay,  out- 
stretched and  motionless,  a  young  woman  in  a 
white  gown,  with  dishevelled  hair  and  bared  shoul- 
ders. One  arm  was  thrown  up  over  her  head,  the 
other  fell  upon  her  breast.  Her  eyes  were  closed, 
and  a  light  crimson  foam  had  burst  forth  upon 
the  closely-compressed  lips.  Could  that  be  Ellis? 
But  Ellis  was  a  phantom,  while  I  beheld  before 
me  a  living  woman.  I  approached  her,  bent 
over.  .  .  . 

"Ellis?  Is  it  thou?"-I  exclaimed.  Sud- 
denly, with  a  slow  quiver,  the  broad  eyelids  were 
lifted;  dark,  piercing  eyes  bored  into  me — and  at 
that  same  moment  the  lips  also  clung  to  me,  i 
warm,  moist,  w^ith  a  scent  of  blood  ....  the  soft 
arms  wound  themselves  tightly  round  my  neck, 
the  full,  burning  bosom  was  pressed  convulsively 
to  mine.  —  "Farewell!  Farewell  forever!" — a 
dying  voice  articulated  distinctly,  —  and  every- 
thing vanished. 

I  rose  to  my  feet  staggering  like  one  intox- 
icated, and  passing  my  hands  several  times  across 
my  face,  I  gazed  attentively  about  me.  I  was 
close  to  the  ***  highway,  a  couple  of  versts  from 

52 


PHAXTOMS 

mv  manor-house.  The  sun  had  ah-eadv  risen 
when  I  reached  home. 

All  the  following  nights  I  waited— and  not 
without  terror,  I  admit— for  the  appearance  of 
my  phantom;  but  it  did  not  visit  me  again.  I 
even  went  one  day,  in  the  twilight,  to  the  old  oak- 
tree;  but  nothing  unusual  occurred  there  either. 
I  did  not  grieve  overmuch,  however,  at  the  ces- 
sation of  the  strange  friendship.  I  pondered 
much  and  long  over  this  incomprehensible,  almost 
inexplicable  affair- and  I  became  con\'inced  that 
not  only  is  science  unable  to  elucidate  it,  but  that 
even  in  the  fairy-tales,  the  legends,  there  is  no- 
thing of  the  sort  to  be  encountered.  What  was 
Ellis,  as  a  matter  of  fact?  A  vision,  a  wandering 
soul,  an  evil  spirit,  a  sylph,  a  vampire?  Some- 
times it  seemed  to  me  once  more  that  Ellis  was  a 
A\oman  whom  I  had  formerly  known,  and  I  made 
strenuous  efforts  to  recall  wliere  I  had  seen  her. 
.  .  .  .  There  now,  there,  — it  sometimes  seemed 
to  me,— I  shall  recall  it  directly,  in  another  mo- 
ment. .  .  .  In  vain!  again  ever ji:hing  deliquesced 
like  a  dream.  Yes,  I  pondered  a  great  deal,  and 
as  was  to  be  expected,  I  arrived  at  no  conclusion. 
I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  ask  the  advice 
or  opinion  of  otlier  people,  for  I  was  afraid  of 
gaining  the  reputation  of  a  madman.  At  last 
T  have  cast  aside  all  my  surmises:  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  am  in  no  mood  for  them.    On  the  one  hand,  the 


PHANTOMS 

Emancipation  has  taken  place,  with  its  division 
of  arable  land,  and  so  forth,  and  so  on;  on  the 
other  hand,  my  liealth  has  failed;  my  chest  lias 
begun  to  pain  me,  1  am  subject  to  insomnia,  and 
have  a  cough.  jNIy  whole  body  is  withering  away. 
Mj"  face  is  yellow  as  that  of  a  corpse.  The  doc- 
tor declares  that  I  have  very  little  blood,  and  calls 
my  malady  by  a  Greek  name — "  anjemia  " — and 
has  ordered  me  to  Gastein.  But  the  Arbiter  of 
the  Peace  ^  fears  that  he  "  will  not  be  able  to  deal 
with  "  the  peasants  without  me.  .  .  . 

So  you  see  how  matters  stand ! 

But  what  signify  those  keen,  piercingly-clear 
sounds, — the  sounds  of  a  harmonica, — which  J[ 
hear  as  soon  as  peoj)le  begin  to  talk  to  me  a])out 
any  one's  death  ?  They  grow  ever  louder  and  more 
piercing.  .  .  .  And  why  do  I  shudder  in  such 
torturing  anguish  at  the  mere  thought  of  anni- 
hilation ? 

1  An  official  who  was  appointed  after  the  Emancipation  to  arbi- 
trate differences  of  opinion  as  to  the  division  of  the  land  between  the 
landed  proprietors  and  the  serfs.— Translator. 


-U 


yAkoff  pasynkoff 

(1855) 


yAkoff  pAsynkoff 


IT  happened  in  Petersburg,  in  winter,  on  the 
first  day  of  the  carnival-week.  I  had  been  in- 
vited to  dine  by  one  of  my  boarding-school  com- 
rades, who  had  borne  the  reputation  in  his  youth 
of  being  a  pretty  girl,  and  had  later  on  turned 
out  a  man  who  was  not  in  the  least  bashful.  He 
is  dead  now,  like  the  majority  of  my  comrades. 
In  addition  to  myself,  Konstantin  Alexandro- 
vitch  Asanoff ,  and  a  literary  celebrity  of  the  day 
had  promised  to  come  to  dinner.  The  literary 
celebrity  kept  us  waiting  for  him,  and  at  last  sent 
word  that  he  would  not  come,  but  in  his  stead  a 
small,  fair-haired  gentleman  presented  himself, — 
one  of  those  everlasting  unbidden  guests  in  which 
Petersburg  abounds. 

The  dinner  lasted  a  long  time;  the  host  did  not 
spare  his  wine,  and  our  heads  gradually  got 
heated.  Kverytliing  that  each  one  of  us  had  con- 
cealed in  liis  soul  — and  who  has  not  sometliing 
concealed  in  his  soul? — came  out.  The  host's 
face  suddenly  lost  its  modest  and  reserv^ed  ex- 

57 


YAKOFF  rxVSYNKOFF 

pressioii ;  his  eyes  began  to  glitter  insolently,  and 
an  insipid  grin  distorted  his  lips;  the  fair-haired 
gentleman  began  to  laugh  in  a  pitiful  sort  of  way, 
with  a  stupid  wliine;  but  Asanoff  surprised  me 
most  of  all.  That  man  had  always  been  distin- 
guished for  a  sense  of  decorum ;  but  on  this  occa- 
sion he  suddenly  began  to  pass  his  hand  across 
his  brow,  to  put  on  airs,  and  to  brag  of  his  power- 
ful connections,  incessantly  making  mention  of 
some  uncle  of  his,  a  very  influential  man.  ...  I 
decidedly  failed  to  recognise  him;  he  was  openly 
jeering  at  us  ...  .  he  almost  expressed  his  con- 
tempt for  our  society.  AsanofF's  insolence  en- 
raged me. 

"  See  here," — I  said  to  him: — "  if  we  are  so  in- 
significant in  your  eyes,  march  off  to  your  influ- 
ential uncle.  But  perhaps  he  does  not  admit  you 
to  his  presence?  " 

Asanoff"  made  me  no  reply,  and  continued  to 
draw  his  hand  across  his  brow. 

"  And  what  sort  of  folks  are  these!  " — he  said 
again.  — "  AVhy,  they  never  go  in  any  decent  so- 
ciety, they  are  n't  acquainted  with  a  single  well- 
bred  woman,  while  I," — he  exclaimed,  drawing 
from  his  side-pocket  a  wallet,  and  banging  the 
table  with  it,  —  "  have  here  a  whole  bunch  of  letters 
from  a  young  girl  whose  like  you  will  not  find  in 
all  the  world!  " 

The  host  and  the  fair-haired  gentleman  paid  no 
heed  to  Asanoff*'s  last  words;  they  were  clutch- 
ing each  other  by  the  button,— and  both  of  them 

58 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

were  narrating  some  story ;  but  I  pricked  up  my 
ears. 

"  Well,  you  are  bragging  in  good  sooth,  i\Ir. 
Xephew  of  an  important  personage!" — I  said, 
moving  closer  to  AsanofF:  — "  you  have  n't  any 
letters,  whatsoever." 

"  You  think  so?  " — he  retorted,  glancing  loftily 
down  upon  me.  —  "What  's  this,  then?"  —  He 
opened  the  wallet,  and  showed  me  about  half  a 
score  of  letters  addressed  to  him.  ..."  The 
handwriting  is  familiar!  "  —  I  thought.  .  .  . 

I  feel  the  flush  of  shame  start  out  on  my  cheeks 
.  .  .  .  my  self-love  suffers  acuteh\  .  .  .  AVhat 
possesses  me  to  confess  so  ignoble  a  deed?  .... 
But  there  is  no  help  for  it.  I  knew  when  I  began 
mv  tale  that  I  should  be  forced  to  blush  to  the 
very  ears.  So,  then,  summoning  up  all  mj^  forces, 
I  am  bound  to  confess  that  .... 

Here  is  the  point:  I  took  advantage  of  Asa- 
noff's  tipsy  condition,  and  when  he  carelessly 
flung  the  letters  on  the  table-cloth,  which  was 
drenched  with  champagne  (my  own  head  was 
Ijuzzing  pretty  hard,  too),  I  swiftly  ran  my  eye 
over  one  of  the  letters.  .  .  . 

My  heart  sank  within  me.  .  .  .  Alas !  I  myself 
was  in  love  with  the  young  girl  who  had  been 
writing  to  Asiinofl",  and  now  I  could  no  longer 
clierish  any  doul)t  tliat  she  loved  him.  The  whole 
letter,  which  was  written  in  French,  breatlicd 
forth  tenderness,  devotion.  .  .  . 

"Man  chcr  ami  Consiantin! " — tliat  was  tlie 

59 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

way  it  began  ....  and  it  wound  up  with  the  words: 
"  be  cautious,  as  of  3'ore,  and  I  will  be  yours  or 
no  one's." 

Stunned,  as  though  by  a  claj)  of  thunder,  I  sat 
motionless  for  a  few  moments,  but  recovered  my- 
self at  last,  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  rushed  from 
the  room.  .  .  . 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  was  in  my  own 
lodgings. 

The  Zlotnitzky  family  was  one  of  the  first  with 
which  I  had  become  acquainted  after  my  removal 
from  iSIoscow  to  Petersburg.  It  consisted  of  fa- 
ther, mother,  two  daughters,  and  a  son.  The 
father,  already  a  grey-haired  but  still  fresh  man, 
formerly  in  the  army,  occuj^ied  a  rather  impor- 
tant post,  spent  the  morning  at  his  service,  slept 
after  dinner,  and  in  the  evening  played  cards  at 
the  club.  .  .  .  lie  was  rarely  at  home,  he  con- 
versed little  and  reluctantly,  gazed  askance  from 
under  his  brows  in  a  manner  which  was  not  pre- 
cisely surly  nor  yet  j^i'^cisely  indifferent,  and 
never  read  anything  except  books  of  travel  and 
geographies,  and  when  he  was  ill  he  coloured  pic- 
tures, having  locked  himself  in  his  study,  or 
teased  the  old  gre}^  parrot  Popka.  His  wife,  an 
ailing  and  consumptive  woman,  with  sunken  black 
eyes  and  a  sharp  nose,  never  quitted  her  couch  for 
days  together,  and  was  always  embroidering  cush- 
ions on  canvas;  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  observe, 

60 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

she  was  afraid  of  her  husband,  exactly  as  though 
she  were  culpable  toward  him  in  some  wa3^    The 
eldest  daughter,  Varvara,  a  plump,  rosy,  chest- 
nut-haired girl,  eighteen  years  of  age,  was  per- 
jDetually  sitting  at  the  window  and  scrutinising 
the  passers-by.    The  son  was  being  educated  in  a 
government  institution,  made  his  appearance  at 
home  only  on  Sunday,  and  was  not  fond  of  wast- 
ing words  for  nothing  either;  even  the  younger 
daughter,  Sofya,  the  young  girl  with  whom  I 
fell  in  love,  was  of  a  taciturn  disposition.     Si- 
lence always  reigned  in  the  Zlotnitzkj's'  house; 
only  Popka's  piercing  screams  broke  it;  but  visi- 
tors speedily  became  accustomed  to  it,  and  again 
felt  the  burden  and  oppression  of  that  eternal 
silence  weighing  upon  them.     However,  visitors 
rarelv  looked  in  at  the  Zlotnitzkvs' :  it  was  tire- 
some  there.     The  very  furniture,  the  red  wall- 
paper, with  yellowish  jiatterns,  in  the  drawing- 
room;  tlie  multitude  of  chairs,  with  plaited  seats, 
in  the  dining-room;  the  faded  worsted  pillows, 
with  representations  of  young  girls  and  dogs,  on 
the  divans;  the  horned  lamps  and  gloomy  por- 
traits, on  the  walls — all  ins])ired  an  involuntary 
melancholy,  all  emitted  a  cold,  sour  sort  of  atmos- 
phere.   On  reaching  Petersburg,  I  had  regarded 
it  as  my  duty  to  call  upon  the  Zlotnitzkvs:  tliey 
were  distantly  related  to  my  mother.     ^Vith  dif- 
ficulty did  T  sit  out  the  hour,  and  for  a  long  time 
I  did  not  return;  but  gradually  1  took  to  going 

Gl 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

more  and  more  frequently.  I  was  attracted  by 
Sofya,  whom  I  had  not  liked  at  first,  and  with 
whom  I  idtimately  fell  in  love. 

She  was  a  p^irl  of  short  stature,  almost  gaunt, 
with  a  ])ale  face,  thick,  black  hair,  and  large, 
brown  eyes,  which  were  always  half-closed.  Her 
features,  which  were  regular  and  sharp-set,  espe- 
cially her  tightly-compressed  lips,  expressed 
firmness  and  force  of  will.  At  home  she  was 
called  a  girl  with  character.  ..."  She  resembles 
her  eldest  sister,  Katerina," — said  Madame  Zlot- 
nitzky  one  day,  when  she  was  sitting  alone  with 
me  (she  never  ventured  to  refer  to  that  Katerina 
in  her  husband's  presence).  — "  You  do  not  know 
her;  she  is  in  the  Caucasus,  married.  At  the  age 
of  thirteen, — just  imagine  it! — she  fell  in  love 
with  the  man  who  is  now  her  husband,  and  then 
announced  to  us  that  she  would  marrj'  no  one 
else.  Do  what  we  would, — nothing  was  of  any 
avail !  She  waited  until  she  was  twenty-three,  en- 
raged her  father,  —  and  married  her  idol  all  the 
same.  It  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
for  a  catastrophe  to  happen  with  Sonetchka  also! 
]May  the  Lord  preserve  her  from  such  stubborn- 
ness! But  I  'm  apprehensive  for  her;  she  is  only 
sixteen,  but  already  it  is  imj)OSsible  to  control 
her.  .  .  ." 

INIr.  Zlotnitzky  entered;  his  wife  immediately 
fell  silent. 

StrictW  speaking,  Sofya  did  not  attract  me  by 

62 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

her  force  of  will— no;  but,  with  all  her  dryness, 
and  lack  of  animation  and  imagination,  she  pos- 
sessed the  charm  of  straightforwardness,  honour- 
able sincerity,  and  spiritual  purity.  I  respected 
her  as  much  as  I  loved  her.  ...  It  seemed  to  me 
that  she  was  well-inclined  toward  me ;  it  was  pain- 
ful to  me  to  be  undeceived  as  to  her  attachment, 
to  become  convinced  of  her  love  for  another. 

The  unexpected  discovery  which  I  had  made 
astounded  me  all  the  more,  because  Mr.  AsanofF 
visited  the  Zlotnitzkys'  house  infrequently,  much 
more  rarely  than  I  did,  and  showed  no  particular 
preference  for  Sofya.  He  was  a  handsome,  dark- 
complexioned  man,  with  exi)ressive,  although 
rather  heavy  features,  prominent,  brilliant  eyes, 
a  large,  white  brow,  and  plump,  red  little  lips  be- 
neath a  delicate  moustache.  He  bore  himself  very 
modestly,  but  rigorously,  talked  and  pronounced 
judgment  with  self-confidence,  and  held  his  peace 
with  dignity.  It  was  obvious  that  he  thought  a 
great  deal  of  himself.  AsanofF  laughed  rarely, 
and  that  through  his  teeth,  and  he  never  danced. 
He  was  very  badly  built.  He  had  once  served 
in  the  ***  regiment,  and  had  borne  the  reputa- 
tion of  an  active  officer. 

"  Strange!  "  —  I  reflected,  as  I  lay  on  my  divan: 
— "  why  have  I  not  noticed  anything  of  this?  " 
The  words  of  Sofya's  letter  suddenly  recurred  to 
my  mind.— "Ah!"— I  thought:— "  that  's  it! 
W'liat  a  crafty  little  girl!     And  I  had  thought 

03 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

her  frank  and  sincere.  .  .  .  Well,  just  wait,  and 
I  11  sliow  you!  .  .  .  ." 

But  at  this  point,  so  far  as  I  can  recall  the 
circumstances,  I  fell  to  weeping  bitterly,  and 
could  not  get  to  sleep  initil  morning. 

On  the  following  day,  at  two  o'clock,  I  set  out  for 
the  Zlotnitzkys'.  The  old  man  was  not  at  home, 
and  his  wife  was  not  sitting  in  her  accustomed 
place;  her  head  had  begun  to  ache  after  she  had 
eaten  pancakes,^  and  she  had  gone  to  lie  down  in 
her  bedroom.  Varvara  was  standing  with  her 
shoulder  leaning  against  the  window,  and  staring 
into  the  street;  Sofya  was  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the 
room,  with  her  arms  folded  across  her  breast; 
Popka^  w^as  shrieking. 

"Ah!  good  morning!" — said  Varvara,  lan- 
guidly, as  soon  as  I  entered  the  room,  and  imme- 
diately added,  in  an  undertone:  "yonder  goes  a 
man  with  a  tray  on  his  head.  .  .  ."  (She  had  a 
habit  of  making  remarks  about  the  passers-by, 
occasionally,  and  as  though  to  herself.) 

"  Good  morning,"  —  I  replied.  —  "  Good  morn- 
ing, Sofya  Nikolaevna.  And  where  is  Tatyana 
Vasilievna?  " 

^  Pancakes,  served  with  melted  butter  and  caviare  (never  with  sweet 
eyrup),  are  the  principal  feature  of  the  Russian  "  butter-week  "  or 
carnival-tide,  and  are  seldom  or  never  eaten  at  any  other  time.  ^ 
Translator. 

2  Equivalent  to  Polly,  in  the  case  of  parrots.  — Translator. 

64 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  She  has  gone  to  lie  down,"— replied  Sofya, 
continuing  to  pace  the  room. 

"  We  had  pancakes,"— remarked  Varvara, 
without  turning  round.  —  "  Why  did  n't  you 
come?  .  .  .  Where  is  that  clerk  going?  " 

"  I  had  no  time."—  ("  Po-li-iice!  "  yelled  the 
parrot,  harshly.) —"  How  your  Popka  does 
screech  to-day!  " 

"  He  always  screeches  like  that," — said  Sofya. 

We  all  maintained  silence  for  a  while. 

"  He  has  turned  in  at  the  gate," — said  Var- 
vara, suddenly  climbing  on  the  window-sill  and 
opening  the  hinged  pane. 

"  What  art  thou  about?  "  —  inquired  Sofya. 

"  A  beggar,"  — replied  Varvara,  bent  down, 
picked  up  a  copper  five-kopek  piece,  on  which  the 
ashes  of  a  fumigating  pastile  still  rose  in  a  mound, 
flung  the  coin  into  the  street,  slammed  to  the  pane, 
and  jumped  heavily  to  the  floor.  .  .  . 

"  I  passed  the  time  very  pleasantly  last  night," 
—  I  began,  as  I  seated  myself  in  an  arm-chair:  — 
*'  I  dined  witli  a  friend ;  Konstantin  Alexandritch 
was  tliere.  ..."  (I  looked  at  Sofya;  she  did  not 
even  contract  her  brows.) —"  And,  I  must  con- 
fess,"—I  went  on,  — "  that  we  got  rather  con- 
vivial; tlie  four  of  us  drank  eight  bottles." 

"You  don't  say  so!  "  —  calmly  ejaculated  So- 
fya, shaking  her  head. 

"  Yes,"— I  went  on,  slightly  nettled  by  her  in- 

G5 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

difference; — "and  do  yon  know  what,  Sofya 
Xikoliievna, — 't  is  not  witliout  reason  that  the 
proverb  says  that  when  the  wine  is  in  the  trnth 
comes  ont." 

"How  so?" 

"  Konstantin  Alexandritch  made  us  laugli 
greatly.  Just  picture  to  yourself:  he  suddenly 
took  to  passing  his  hand  across  his  forehead  like 
this,  and  saying:  '  What  a  fine,  dashing  fellow  I 
am!  I  have  an  uncle  who  is  a  distinguished 
man.  .  .  . 

"  Ha,  ha!  "  —  rang  out  Varvara's  short,  abrupt 
laugh.  .  .  .  "  Popka,  popka,  popka!"  rattled 
the  parrot  in  response. 

Sofya  halted  in  front  of  me,  and  looked  into 
my  face. 

"And  what  did  you  say?" — she  asked: — 
"  don't  you  remember?  " 

I  blushed  involuntarily. 

"  I  don't  remember!  I  must  have  been  in  a  fine 
state  also.  As  a  matter  of  fact," — I  added,  with 
significant  pauses:  — "  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to 
drink  wine ;  the  first  you  know,  you  babble  secrets, 
and  say  that  which  no  one  ought  to  know.  You 
will  repent  afterward,  but  then  it  is  too  late." 

"  And  did  you  babble  secrets? " — inquired 
Sofya. 

"  I  'm  not  talking  about  myself." 

Sofya  turned  away,  and  again  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room.    I  gazed  at  her,  and  raged 

66 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

inwardly.  "  Just  look  at  you,"— 1  said  to  myself, 
— "  you  're  a  baby,  a  mere  child,  yet  what  control 
vou  have  over  vourself !  You  're  like  a  stone,  sim- 
ply.    But  just  wait  a  bit.  .  .  ." 

"  Sofya  Xikolaevna  .  ..."  I  said  aloud. 

Sofya  stood  still. 

"  What  do  you  want?  " 

"  Will  not  you  play  something  on  the  piano? 
By  the  way,  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"— I 
added,  lowering  my  voice. 

Sofya,  without  uttering  a  word,  went  into  the 
hall;  I  followed  her.  She  stopped  beside  the 
j^iano. 

"  What  shall  I  play  for  you?  "  —  she  asked. 

"  What  you  jDlease  ...  a  nocturne  by  Chopin." 

Sofya  began  the  nocturne.  She  played  rather 
badly,  but  with  feeling.  Her  sister  played  only 
polkas  and  waltzes,  and  that  rarely.  She  would 
lounge  up  to  the  piano,  with  her  lazy  gait,  seat 
herself,  drop  the  burnous  from  her  shoulders  to 
her  elbows  (I  never  saw  her  without  a  burnous), 
start  up  a  polka  thunderously,  fail  to  finish  it, 
begin  another,  then  suddenly  heave  a  sigh,  rise 
and  return  to  the  window.  A  strange  being  was 
that  Varvara. 

I  sat  down  beside  Sofya. 

"  Sofya  Xikolaevna,"  —  I  began,  gazing  in- 
tently at  her  askance:  —  "  I  must  impart  to  you  a 
bit  of  news  whicli  is  verv  disagreeable  to  me." 

"Xews?    What  is  it?" 

07 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  This.  .  .  .  Up  to  this  time  I  have  been  mis- 
taken in  you,  utterly  mistaken." 

"  How  so?  " — she  returned,  continuing  to  play, 
and  fixing  he.'  eyes  on  lier  fingers. 

"  I  have  thought  that  you  were  frank;  I  have 
thought  that  you  did  not  know  how  to  be  crafty, 
to  be  sly " 

Sofya  put  her  face  close  to  her  music.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"But  the  principal  thing  is," — I  went  on; — 
"  that  I  could  not  possibly  imagine,  that  you,  at 
your  age,  were  already  capable  of  playing  a, part 
in  so  masterly  a  manner.  .  .  ." 

Sofya's  hands  trembled  slightly  on  the  keys. 

"  What  are  you  saying?  "  —  she  said,  still  with- 
out looking  at  me:  — "  I  am  playing  a  part?  " 

"  Yes,  you."  (She  laughed.  .  .  .  Fierce  wrath 
took  possession  of  me. )  ....  "  You  feign  to  be 
indifferent  to  a  certain  man  and  .  .  .  and  you 
write  letters  to  him," — I  added  in  a  whisper. 

Sofya's  cheeks  blanched,  but  she  did  not  turn 
toward  me;  she  played  the  nocturne  to  the  end, 
rose,  and  shut  the  lid  of  the  piano. 

"  Where  are  3^ou  going?  "  —  I  asked,  not  with- 
out confusion.  — "  You  will  not  answer  me?  " 

"What  answer  have  I  to  make  to  you?  I 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  .  .  . 
And  I  don't  know  how  to  dissemble." 

She  began  to  put  the  music  together.  .  .  . 

The  blood  flew  to  my  head. 

08 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

"  Yes,  you  do  know  what  I  am  talking  about," 
— I  said,  rising  also:  — "and  if  you  like,  I  will 
immediately  remind  you  of  several  expressions 
in  one  of  those  letters: — 'be  cautious  as  of 
vore.' ..." 

Sofya  gave  a  shght  start. 

"  I  had  not  in  the  least  expected  this  from  you," 
—  she  said  at  last. 

"  And  I  had  not  in  the  least  expected,"  — I 
interposed,  —  "  that  you,  Sofya  Nikolaevna, 
deigned  to  bestow  your  attention  upon  a  man 
who  .  .  .  ." 

Sofya  turned  swiftly  toward  me;  I  involun- 
tarily retreated  a  pace;  her  eyes,  always  half- 
closed,  were  so  widely  opened  that  they  ap- 
peared huge,  and  sparkled  angrily  under  her 
brows. 

"Ah!  In  that  case,"  — said  she,  —  "you  must 
know  that  I  love  that  man,  and  that  your  opinion 
of  him  and  of  my  love  for  him  is  a  matter  of 
perfect  indifference  to  me.  And  where  did  you 
get  the  idea?  ....  What  right  have  you  to  say 
that?  And  if  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  any- 
thing .  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  short,  and  swiftly  left  the  room. 

I  remained.  I  suddenly  felt  so  awkward  and 
conscience-stricken,  that  I  covered  my  face  with 
my  hands.  I  comprehended  all  the  im))ropriety, 
all  the  baseness  of  my  conduct,  and  panting  with 
shame  and  penitence,  I  stood  like  one  branded 

60 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

with    disorace.      "My    God!"— I    tliought:— 
"  what  have  I  done?  " 

"  Anton  Xikititch," — the  maid's  voice  became 
audible  in  the  anteroom,  — "  please  get  a  glass  of 
water  as  quickly  as  possible  for  Sofya  Nikola- 
evna." 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter?  " — asked  the  butler. 

"  I  think  she  's  weeping.  .  .  ." 

I  gave  a  start,  and  went  into  the  drawing-room 
to  get  my  hat. 

"  What  were  you  talking  about  with  S6- 
netchka?  " — Varvara  asked  me  indifferentlj^  and 
after  a  brief  pause,  she  added  in  an  undertone: 
— "  there  goes  that  notary's  clerk  again." 

I  began  to  take  my  leave. 

"Where  are  you  going?  Wait,  mamma  will 
come  out  of  her  room  directly." 

"No;  I  can't  now," — said  I: — "it  would  be 
better  for  me  to  return  some  other  time." 

At  that  moment,  to  my  terror, — precisely  that, 
— to  my  terror,  Sofya  entered  the  drawing-room 
with  firm  steps.  Her  face  was  paler  than  usual, 
and  her  eyelids  were  slightly  red.  She  did  not 
even  glance  at  me. 

"  Look,  Sofya," — said  Varvara: — "  some  clerk 
or  other  keeps  walking  about  our  house." 

"  Some  spy  or  other,"  ....  remarked  Sofya, 
coldly  and  scornfully. 

This  was  too  much!  I  departed,  and,  really, 
I  do  not  remember  how  I  got  home. 

70 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

I  was  very  heavy  at  heart,  more  heavy  and 
bitter  than  I  can  describe.  Two  such  cruel  blows 
in  the  space  of  four-and-twenty  hours!  I  had 
learned  that  Sofya  loved  another,  and  had  for- 
ever forfeited  her  respect.  I  felt  myself  so  anni- 
hilated and  put  to  shame,  that  I  could  not  even 
be  indignant  with  myself.  As  I  lay  on  the  divan, 
with  my  face  turned  to  the  wall,  I  was  surrender- 
ing myself  with  a  sort  of  burning  enjoyment  to 
the  first  outbursts  of  despairing  anguish,  when 
I  suddenly  heard  footsteps  in  the  room.  I 
raised  my  head  and  beheld  one  of  my  most  in- 
timate friends— Yakoff  Pasynkoff. 

I  was  ready  to  fly  into  a  passion  with  any  man 
who  entered  mv  room  that  dav,  but  never  could  I 
be  angry  with  Pasynkoff;  on  the  contrary,  in 
spite  of  the  grief  which  was  devouring  me,  I  in- 
wardly rejoiced  at  his  coming,  and  nodded  to  him. 
According  to  his  wont,  he  strode  up  and  down  the 
room  a  couple  of  times,  grunting  and  stretching 
his  long  limbs,  stood  silently  for  a  little  while,  in 
front  of  me,  and  silenth'  seated  himself  in  one 
corner. 

I  had  known  PasvnkofF  a  verv  Ions:  time,  al- 
most  from  childhood.  He  had  been  reared  in 
the  same  private  boarding-school,  kept  by  a  Ger- 
man named  W'interkeller,  in  whicli  I  had  spent 
tliree  years.  Yakoff 's  father,  a  poor,  retired 
major,  a  ver^'  honourable  man,  but  somewhat  un- 
hinged mentally,  had  brought  him,  an  urchin  of 

71 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

seven  years,  to  this  German,  paid  a  year's  tuition 
in  advance,  had  gone  away  from  INIoscow,  and 
vanished,  without  leaving  a  trace.  From  time 
to  time  dark,  strange  rumours  concerning  him  ar- 
rived. Only  after  the  lapse  of  seven  years  was  it 
learned  with  certainty  that  he  had  heen  drowned 
in  a  freshet,  as  he  was  crossing  the  Irtysh.  What 
had  taken  him  to  Siberia,  the  Lord  only  knows. 
YakofF  had  no  other  relatives.  So  he  remained 
on  Winterkeller's  hands.  It  is  true  that  YakofF 
had  one  distant  relative, — an  aunt,  w^ho  was  so 
poor,  that  at  first  she  was  afraid  to  go  to  see  her 
nephew,  lest  they  should  cast  him  on  her  shoul- 
ders. Her  alarm  proved  to  be  unfounded;  the 
kind-hearted  German  kept  YakofF  with  him,  per- 
mitted him  to  learn  with  the  other  pupils,  fed 
him  (but  they  passed  him  over  at  dessert  on  week- 
days), and  made  over  clothing  for  him  from  the 
camelot  morning-gowns  (chiefly  snufF-coloured) 
of  his  mother,  a  very  aged,  but  still  alert  and 
active  Lifiyand  ^  woman.  The  result  of  all  these 
circumstances,  and  the  result  of  YakofF's  inferior 
position  in  the  boarding-school  was,  that  his  com- 
rades treated  him  slightingly,  looked  down  on 
him,  and  called  him  sometimes  "  woman's  wrap- 
per," sometimes  "  the  mob-cap's  nephew  "  (his 
aunt  constantly  wore  a  very  queer  cap,  with  a 
tuft  of  yellow  ribbons  in  the  shape  of  an  arti- 
choke, sticking  out  at  the  top),  sometimes  "the 

^  Livonia.  —  Traxslator. 

72 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

son  of  Yermak  ^  (because  his  father  had  been 
drowned  in  the  Irtysh).  But,  in  spite  of  these 
nicknames,  in  spite  of  his  absurd  garments,  in 
spite  of  his  extreme  poverty,  they  all  loved  him 
greatly,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  love  him;  a 
kinder,  more  noble  soul  never  existed  on  earth, 
I  think.    He  also  studied  extremely  well. 

When  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time,  he  was  six- 
teen years  of  age,  while  I  had  just  passed  my 
thirteenth  birthday.  I  was  an  extremely  conceited 
and  spoiled  urchin,  had  been  reared  in  a  fairly 
wealthv  home,  and  therefore  when  I  entered  the 
boarding-school  I  made  haste  to  get  intimate  with 
a  certain  little  Prince,  the  object  of  Winterkeller's 
special  solicitude,  and  with  two  or  three  other 
small  aristocrats,  while  I  put  on  pompous  airs 
with  all  tlie  rest.  I  did  not  even  deign  to  notice 
Pasynkoff.  That  long,  awkward  young  fellow, 
in  his  hideous  round- jacket  and  short  trousers, 
from  beneath  which  peeped  thick,  knitted  thread 
stockings,  seemed  to  me  something  in  the  nature 
of  a  page-boy  from  the  house-serfs'  class,  or  the 
son  of  a  petty  burgher.  Pasynkoff  was  very  po- 
lite and  gentle  to  everybody,  although  he  fawned 
on  no  one;  if  they  repulsed  him,  he  did  not  hum- 
ble himself,  and  did  not  sulk,  Init  held  himself 
aloof,  as  though  grieving  and  waiting.  Thus  did 
he   behave   with    me   also.      About   two   months 

'  The  ronqueror  of  Siberia,  in  the  n-inn  of  Iv/.n  the  Terrible.     He  was 
drowned  (loHt)  while  trying  to  swim  IJie  Irtysh.  — Transla toil 

73 


YAKOFF  TASYNKOFF 

elapsed.  One  clear  siininier  day,  as  I  was  pass- 
ing from  tlie  courtyard  into  the  "arden,  after  a 
noisy  game  of  ball,  1  saw  Pasynkoff  sitting  on  a 
bench,  imder  a  tall  lilac-bush.  He  was  reading- 
a  book.  I  cast  a  glance,  in  passing,  at  the  cover, 
and  read  on  the  back  the  title:  "  Schiller's 
AVerke."    I  stopped  short. 

"  Do  3^ou  know  German?  " — I  asked  Pasyn- 
koff.  .  .  . 

To  this  day  I  feel  mortified,  when  I  recall  how 
much  scorn  there  was  in  the  sound  of  my  voice. 
....  Pasynkoif  gently  raised  his  small  but 
expressive  eyes  to  mine,  and  answered: 

"  Yes,  I  do;  do  you?  " 

"  I  should  think  so!  "  —  I  retorted,  already  af- 
fronted; and  was  on  the  point  of  proceeding  on 
my  way,  but  something  kept  me  back. 

"  And  what  in  particular  are  you  reading  from 
Schiller?  " — I  inquired  with  as  much  haughti- 
ness as  before. 

"  I  am  now  reading  '  Resignation  ' ;  it  is  a  very 
beautiful  poem.  I  '11  read  it  to  j^ou  if  you  like — 
shall  I?    Sit  down  here  beside  me,  on  the  bench.'* 

I  hesitated  a  little,  but  sat  down.  Pasynkoff 
began  to  read.  He  knew  German  much  better 
than  I  did;  he  was  obliged  to  explain  to  me  the 
sense  of  several  lines;  but  I  was  no  longer 
ashamed  either  of  my  ignorance,  or  of  his  superi- 
ority to  myself.  From  that  day  forth,  from  that 
reading  together  in  the  garden,  in  the  shade  of  the 

74 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

lilac-bush,  I  loved  PasynkofF  with  all  my  soul;  I 
got  intimate  with  him,  I  submitted  wholh'  to  him. 
I  vividly  recall  his  personal  ap]3earance  at  that 
epoch.  However,  he  changed  very  little  after- 
ward. He  was  tall,  thin,  long-bodied,  and  de- 
cidedly clumsy.  His  narrow  shoulders  and 
sunken  chest  gave  him  a  sickly  aspect,  although 
he  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  his  health.  His 
large  head,  arched  on  top,  was  inclined  slightly 
on  one  side,  his  soft,  chestnut  hair  hung  in  thin 
locks  around  his  thin  neck.  His  face  was  not 
handsome,  and  might  even  appear  ridiculous, 
thanks  to  his  long,  thick  and  reddened  nose, 
which  seemed  to  hang  over  his  broad,  straight 
lips;  but  his  open  brow  was  very  fine,  and  when 
he  smiled,  his  small,  orev  eves  beamed  with  such 
gentle  and  affectionate  good-nature,  that  every- 
one felt  warm  and  blithe  at  heart,  from  merely 
looking  at  him.  I  recall  his  voice,  also,  soft  and 
even,  with  a  peculiarly  agreeable  hoarseness.  He 
talked  little,  as  a  general  thing,  and  with  obvious 
difficulty;  but  when  he  grew  animated  his  speech 
flowed  freely  and,  — strange  to  say! — his  voice 
grew  even  softer,  his  glance  seemed  to  retreat 
within  and  become  extinguished,  and  liis  whole 
face  flushed  faintly.  In  his  mouth  the  Avords: 
"  good,"  "  truth,"'  "  life,"  "  science,"  "  love." 
never  had  a  false  ring,  no  matter  how  enthusi- 
astically he  uttered  them.  He  entered  into  the 
realm  of  the  ideal  without  a  strain,  without  an 

75 


h 


VAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

effort;  his  chaste  soul  was  ready  at  all  times  to 
present  itself  before  "  tlie  shrine  of  beauty  ";  it 
waited  only  for  the  greeting,  the  touch  of  an- 
other soul.  .  .  .  PasynkofF  was  a  romanticist, 
one  of  the  last  romanticists  whom  I  have  chanced 
to  meet.  The  romanticists,  as  every  one  knows, 
have  died  out  now;  at  all  events,  there  are  none 
among  the  young  people  of  the  present  day.  So 
much  the  worse  for  the  young  people  of  the  pres- 
ent dav! 

I  spent  about  three  years  with  Pasynkoff ,  soul 
to  soul,  as  the  saying  is.  I  was  the  confidant  of 
his  first  love.  With  what  grateful  attention  and 
sympathy  did  I  listen  to  his  avowal!  The  object 
of  his  passion  was  Winterkeller's  niece,  a  fair- 
haired  prettj^  little  German,  with  a  plump,  almost 
childish  little  face,  and  trustful,  tender  blue  eyes. 
She  was  very  kind-hearted  and  sentimental,  loved 
INIattieson,  Uhland,  and  Scliiller,  and  recited  their 
verses  very  agreeably,  in  her  timid,  melodious 
voice.  Pasynkoff' s  love  was  of  the  most  platonic 
sort;  he  saw  his  beloved  only  on  Sunday  (she 
came  to  play  at  forfeits  with  the  Winterkeller 
children)  and  talked  very  little  with  her;  on  the 
other  hand,  one  dsij,  when  she  said  to  him, ''  Mein 
Ueher,  lieher  Herr  Jacob!"  he  could  not  get  to 
sleep  all  night  from  excess  of  happiness.  It  never 
entered  his  head  then,  that  she  said  ''  mein  lieher  " 
to  all  his  comrades.  I  remember,  too,  his  grief 
and  dejection,  when  the  news  suddenly  spread 

76 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

abroad,  that  Fraulein  Frederika  (that  was  her 
name),  was  going  to  marry  Herr  Kniftus,  the 
owner  of  a  rich  meat-shop,  and  marry  solely  out 
of  obedience  to  her  parents'  wishes,  but  not  for 
love.  That  was  a  difficult  time  for  Pasynkoff, 
and  he  suffered  especially  on  the  day  when  the 
newly-wedded  pair  made  their  first  call.  The 
former  Fraulein,  now  already  Frau  Frederika, 
introduced  him  again  by  the  name  of  "  Ueber  Herr 
Jacob/'  to  her  husband,  everything  about  whom 
was  glistening :  his  eyes,  and  his  black  hair  curled 
into  a  crest,  and  his  forehead,  and  his  teeth,  and 
tlie  buttons  on  his  dress-suit,  and  the  chain  on 
his  waistcoat,  and  the  very  boots  on  his  decidedly 
large  feet,  whose  toes  were  pointed  outward.  Pa- 
synkoff shook  hands  with  Herr  Kniftus,  and 
wished  him  (and  wished  it  sincerely— I  am  con- 
vinced of  that)  full  and  long-continued  happi- 
ness. This  took  ])lace  in  my  presence.  I  remem- 
ber with  what  sur})rise  and  sympathy  I  gazed  at 
YakofF  then.  He  seemed  to  me  a  hero!  .  .  .  And 
afterward,  what  sad  conversations  took  place  be- 
tween us!  —  "  Seek  consolation  in  art,"  —  I  said  to 
him.  —  "  Yes,"— he  answered  me,  —  "  and  in 
poetry."  — "  And  in  friendship,"- 1  added.— 
"  And  in  friendsliip,"— he  rej^eated.  Oh,  happy 
days!  .  .  '. 

It  was  painful  to  me  to  part  from  Pasynkoff! 
Just  before  my  departure,  he  finally  got  liis  pa- 
pers, and  entered  the  university,  after  k)ng  wor- 

I  77 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

lying  and  trouble,  and  a  correspondence  which 
was  often  amusing  lie  continued  to  exist  at 
Winterkeller's  expense,  but  in  place  of  the  came- 
lot  round- jackets  and  trousers,  he  received  the 
customary  clothing  in  return  for  lessons  in  vari- 
ous subjects,  which  he  gave  to  the  younger  pupils. 
PasynkofF  never  changed  his  mode  of  conduct 
to  me  to  the  very  end  of  my  stay  in  the  boarding- 
school,  although  the  difference  in  our  ages  had 
already  begun  to  tell,  and  I,  I  remember,  had 
begun  to  be  jealous  of  several  of  his  new  com- 
rade-students. His  influence  on  me  was  of  the 
most  beneficial  nature.  Unfortunately,  it  was 
not  of  long  duration.  I  will  cite  one  instance 
only.  In  my  childhood,  I  had  a  habit  of  lying. 
....  In  YakofF's  presence  my  tongue  never 
turned  to  falsehood.  But  especially  delightful  to 
me  was  it  to  stroll  with  him,  or  to  pace  by  his 
side  to  and  fro  in  the  room,  and  listen  to  him 
recite  verses  in  his  quiet,  concentrated  voice,  with- 
out glancing  at  me.  Really,  it  seemed  to  me  then, 
that  he  and  I  were  gradually  leaving  the  earth 
behind  us  and  soaring  away  into  some  radiant, 
mysteriously-beautiful  region.  ...  I  remember 
one  night.  He  and  I  were  sitting  under  the  same 
lilac-bush:  we  had  grown  fond  of  the  spot.  All 
our  comrades  were  already  asleep;  but  we  had 
risen  softly,  dressed  ourselves  by  the  sense  of  feel- 
ing, in  the  dark,  and  stealthily  gone  out  "  to 
dream  awhile."    It  was  quite  warm  out  of  doors, 

78 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

but  a  chilly  little  breeze  blew  in  gusts  now  and 
then,  and  made  us  nestle  up  closer  to  each  other. 
We  talked,  we  talked  a  great  deal,  and  with  fer- 
vour, so  that  we  even  interrupted  each  other,  al- 
though we  were  not  wrangling.  In  the  sky 
shone  myriads  of  stars-  YakofF  raised  his  eves, 
and,  pressing  my  hand  closely,  softly  exclaimed; 

"Above  us 

Lies  Heaven  with  its  eternal  stars.    .    .    , 
And  above  the  stars  is  their  Creator.    .    ,    ."" 

A  devout  tremor  coursed  through  me ;  I  turned 
cold  all  over,  and  sank  down  on  his  shoulder.  .  .  . 
]My  heart  was  filled  to  overflowing.  .  .  . 

Where  are  those  raptures  now?  Alas!  in  the 
place  where  youth  is  also. 

I  encountered  YakofF  in  Petersburg  eight 
years  later  on.  I  had  just  obtained  a  position 
in  the  government  service,  and  some  one  had  got 
him  a  petty  post  in  some  department  or  other. 
Our  meeting  was  of  the  most  joyous  character. 
Xever  shall  I  forget  that  moment  when,  as  I  was 
sitting  at  home  one  day,  I  suddenly  heard  liis 
voice  in  the  anteroom.  .  .  .  How  I  started,  with 
what  a  violent  beating  of  the  heart  did  I  spring  to 
mv  feet  and  throw  mvself  on  his  neck,  witliout 
giving  him  time  to  take  off  his  fur  coat  and  un- 
wind his  scarf!  How  eagerly  did  I  ga/.e  at  him 
athwart  bright,  involuntary  tears  of  delight!  He 
had  aged  somewhat  in  the  course  of  the  last  seven 

70 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

years;  wrinkles,  fine  as  the  trace  of  a  needle,  had 
furrowed  his  brow  here  and  there,  his  cheeks  had 
grown  slightly  sunken,  but  his  beard  had  hardly 
increased  at  all  in  thickness,  and  his  smile  re- 
mained the  same  as  of  yore,  and  his  laugh,  his 
charming,  inward  laugh,  which  resembled  a  draw- 
ing-in  of  the  breath,  was  the  same  as  ever.  .  .  . 

Great  heavens !  what  was  there  that  we  did  not 
talk  over  that  day!  ....  How  many  favourite 
poems  we  recited  to  each  other!  I  began  to  urge 
him  to  come  and  live  w^ith  me,  but  he  would  not 
consent;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  promised  to 
come  to  see  me  every  day,  and  he  kept  his  promise. 

And  Pasynkoff  had  not  changed  in  soul,  either. 
Pie  presented  himself  before  me  the  same  roman- 
ticist as  I  had  formerly  known  him.  In  spite  of 
the  way  in  which  life's  chill,  the  bitter  chill  of 
experience,  had  gripped  him,  the  tender  flower, 
which  had  blossomed  early  in  the  heart  of  my 
friend  had  retained  all  its  pristine  beauty.  No 
sadness,  no  pensiveness  even,  were  perceptible  in 
him:  as  of  old,  he  was  gentle,  but  ever  blithe  in 
soul. 

He  lived  in  Petersburg  as  in  a  desert,  taking 
no  heed  for  the  future,  and  consorting  with 
hardly  any  one.  I  made  him  acquainted  with  the 
Zlotnitzkys.  He  called  on  them  with  tolerable 
frequency.  Without  being  conceited,  he  was  not 
shy:  but  with  them,  as  everywhere  else,  he  talked 
little,  although  he  liked  them.     The  heavy  old 

80 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

man,  Tatyana  Vasilievna's  husband,  even  treated 
him  affectionately,  and  both  the  taciturn  girls 
speedily  got  used  to  him. 

He  would  come  bringing  with  him,  in  the  back 
pocket  of  his  overcoat,  some  newh^-published 
work,  and  take  a  long  time  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  read  it,  but  keep  twisting  his  neck  to  one  side, 
like  a  bird,  and  peering  to  see  whether  it  were 
possible;  and,  at  last,  he  would  ensconce  himself 
in  a  corner  (he  was  fond,  in  general,  of  sitting  in 
corners),  pull  out  the  book,  and  set  to  reading 
aloud,  now  and  then  interrupting  himself  with 
brief  comments  or  exclamations.  I  noticed  that 
Varvara  was  more  given  to  sitting  down  beside 
him  and  listening  than  her  sister  was,  although, 
of  course,  she  did  not  understand  him  clearly: 
literature  did  not  interest  her.  She  would  sit  op- 
posite PasynkofF,  with  her  chin  propped  on  her 
hands,  and  gaze,  —  not  into  his  eyes,  but  into  his 
whole  face,  —  and  not  give  utterance  to  a  single 
word,  but  merely  heave  a  sudden,  noisy  sigh. — In 
the  evening,  we  played  at  forfeits,  especially  on 
Sundays  and  feast-days.  We  were  then  joined 
by  two  young  ladies,  sisters,  distant  relatives  of 
tlie  Zlotnitzkys,  —  small,  plump  girls,  and  fright- 
ful gigglers;  also  by  several  cadets  and  yunkers, 
very  quiet,  good-natured  lads.  PasynkofF  always 
seated  himself  beside  Tatyjina  Vasflievna,  and 
lRly)ed  her  devise  what  the  person  who  drew  the 
forfeit  should  do. 

81 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Sofya  was  not  fond  of  the  caresses  and  kisses 
with  which  forfeits  are  usually  redeemed,  while 
Varvara  was  vexed  when  she  was  coni])c'lled  to 
hunt  up  anythin<i^  or  guess  a  riddle.  The  young 
ladies  giggled  incessantly, — heaven  knows  what 
about,  —  and  I  was  sometimes  seized  with  vexa- 
tion when  I  looked  at  them,  while  Pasynkoff 
merely  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  Old  Zlotnitzky 
took  no  part  in  our  games,  and  even  glowered  at 
us  in  none  too  gracious  wise  from  behind  the  door 
of  his  study.  Once  only,  quite  unexpectedly,  did 
he  come  out  to  us,  and  suggest  that  the  person 
whose  forfeit  was  drawn  should  waltz  with  him; 
of  course,  we  assented.  Tatyana  Vasilievna's 
forfeit  was  drawn ;  she  flushed  all  over,  grew  con- 
fused and  shy  as  a  fifteen-year-old  girl, — but  her 
husband  immediately  bade  Sofya  to  seat  herself 
at  the  piano,  stepped  up  to  his  wife,  and  took  a 
couple  of  turns  with  her,  in  old-fashioned  stjde, 
in  three-time.  I  remember  how  his  sallow,  dark 
face,  with  unsmiling  eyes,  now  appeared,  now 
disappeared,  as  he  revolved  slowly,  and  without 
altering  his  stern  expression.  In  waltzing  he 
took  long  steps,  and  skipped,  while  his  wife 
took  quick  little  steps  and  pressed  her  face 
to  his  breast,  as  though  in  terror.  He  led  her  to 
her  seat,  made  his  bow  to  her,  went  off  to  his 
own  room,  and  locked  himself  in.  Sofya  was  on 
the  point  of  rising.  But  Varvara  begged  her  to 
continue  the  waltz,  stepped  up  to  Pasynkoff,  and, 

82 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

extending  her  hand,  said  with  an  awkward 
grin:  "Will  you?"  Pasynkoif  was  astounded, but 
sprang  to  his  feet  nevertheless, — he  was  always 
distinguished  for  his  refined  courtesy,— took  Var- 
vara  round  the  waist,  but  slipped  at  the  very  first 
step,  and  hastily  freeing  himself  from  his  lady, 
rolled  straight  under  the  pedestal  on  which  stood 
the  parrot's  cage.  .  .  .  The  cage  fell,  the  parrot 
was  frightened,  and  began  to  shriek:  "  Po-li-iice! " 
A  universal  roar  of  laughter  rang  out.  .  .  . 
Zlotnitzky  made  his  appearance  on  the  thresh- 
old of  his  study,  gave  a  surly  stare,  and  clapped 
to  the  door.  From  that  time  forth,  all  that  was 
necessary  was  to  allude  to  this  incident  in  Var- 
vara's  presence,  and  she  would  forthwith  begin 
to  laugh,  with  an  expression  on  her  face,  as  she 
glanced  at  Pasynkoff,  which  seemed  to  say  that 
nothing  more  clever  than  what  he  had  done  on 
that  occasion  could  possibly  be  devised. 

Pasynkoff  was  extremely  fond  of  music.  He 
frecjuently  asked  Sofya  to  play  something  for 
him,  seated  himself  a  little  apart,  and  listened, 
from  time  to  time  chiming  in  with  his  thin  voice 
on  the  tender  notes.  He  was  especially  fond 
of  Schubert's  "  The  Constellations."  He  de- 
clared that  when  "  The  Constellations "  was 
j)layed  in  his  presence,  it  always  seemed  to  him 
as  though,  along  with  the  sounds,  some  long,  sky- 
blue  rays  poured  down  from  on  high,  straight 
into  his  breast.     To  tliis  day,  at  the  sight  of  the 

83 


VAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

cloudless  sky  at  night,  with  its  softly-twinkling 
stars,  1  always  recall  that  melody  of  Schuhert 
and  Pasynkoff.  ...  A  certain  stroll  in  the  sub- 
urbs also  recurs  to  my  mind.  The  whole  com- 
pany of  us  had  driven  out  in  two  double-seated, 
hired  carriages,  to  Pargolovo.'  I  remember  that 
we  got  the  carriages  in  Vladimir  street;  they 
were  very  old,  light-blue  in  colour,  mounted  on 
round  springs,  with  broad  boxes  for  the  coach- 
men, and  tufts  of  hay  inside;  the  dark-bay, 
broken-winded  horses  drew  us  along  at  a  ponder- 
ous trot,  each  limping  on  a  different  foot.  For 
a  long  time  we  roamed  through  the  pine  groves 
surrounding  Pargolovo,  drank  milk  from  earthen 
jugs,  and  ate  strawberries  and  sugar.  The  wea- 
ther was  splendid.  Varvara  was  not  fond  of 
walking  much:  she  soon  wearied;  but  on  this  oc- 
casion she  did  not  lag  behind  us.  She  took  off  her 
hat,  her  hair  fell  out  of  curl,  her  heavy  features 
grew  animated,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  crimson. 
On  encountering  tw'o  peasant  maidens  in  the  for- 
est, she  suddenly  seated  herself  on  the  ground, 
called  them  to  her,  and  did  not  caress  them,  but 
made  them  sit  down  beside  her.  Sofya  stared  at 
them  from  afar  with  a  cold  smile,  and  did  not 
approach  them.  She  was  walking  with  Asanoff, 
while  Zlotnitzky  remarked  that  Varvara  was  a 

'  A  Finnish  village,  situated  a  little  more  than  ten  miles  north  of 
St.  Petersburg  There  are  many  summer  villas,  and  numbers  of  the 
former  dweliinprs  of  the  Finns  have  been  converted  into  summer  resi- 
dences by  literary  ai'd  artistic  people. —Tkaxslator. 

»4 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

regular  setting  hen.  Varvara  rose  and  walked 
on.  In  the  course  of  the  stroll  she  approached 
Pasynkoff  several  times  and  said  to  him:  "  Ya- 
kofF  Ivanitch,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you," 
—  but  what  she  wanted  to  say  to  him  remained  a 
secret. 

However,  it  is  high  time  for  me  to  return  to  my 
story. 

I  WAS  delighted  at  PasynkofF's  arrival;  but  I  re- 
called what  I  had  done  on  the  preceding  day;  I 
felt  inexpressibly  conscience-stricken,  and  has- 
tily turned  my  face  to  the  wall  again.  After 
waiting  awhile,  YakofF  asked  me  if  I  were  well. 

"  Yes,"  — I  replied  through  my  teeth:  — "  only, 
my  head  aches." 

YakofF  made  no  reply,  and  picked  up  a  book, 
^lore  than  an  hour  passed;  I  was  already  on  the 
point  of  making  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole  thing 
to  YakofF  .  .  .  when,  suddenly,  the  bell  in  the 
anteroom  began  to  ring. 

The  door  on  the  staircase  opened.  .  .  I  listened. 
....  AsiinofF  was  asking  mv  man  whether  I 
was  at  home. 

PasynkofF  rose;  he  did  not  like  AsiinofF,  and 
whispering  to  me  that  he  would  go  and  lie  down 
on  my  bed,  he  betook  himself  to  my  sleeping- 
room. 

A  minute  later,  AsanofF  entered. 

From  his  flushed  face,  from  his  curt  and  dry 

85 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

bow  alone,  1  divined  that  lie  had  not  come  to  me 
for  any  ordinary  call.  "  AVhat  's  in  the  wind?  " 
1  thought. 

"  M}"  dear  sir,"— he  began,  swiftly  seating 
himself  in  an  arm-chair,  —  "  I  have  presented  my- 
self to  you  for  the  ])urj)ose  of  having  you  solve 
for  me  a  certain  doubt." 

"  AVhat  is  it,  precisely?  " 

"  This :  I  wish  to  know  whether  you  are  an 
honourable  man?  " 

I  flared  up. 

"  AVhat  does  this  mean?  " — I  asked. 

"  This  is  what  it  means,"  ....  he  returned, 
pronouncing  each  word  with  clear-cut  distinct- 
ness: "  Yesterday  evening  I  showed  you  a  wallet 
containing  the  letters  of  a  certain  person  to  me. 
....  To-da}^  3"0u  have  rej^eated  to  that  person 
with  reproach,  —  observe,  with  reproach, — several 
expressions  from  those  letters,  without  having  the 
slightest  right  to  do  so.  I  wish  to  know  how  you 
will  explain  this?  " 

"  And  I  wish  to  know,  what  right  you  have  to 
catechise  me?"  —  I  replied,  trembling  all  over 
with  rage  and  inward  shame.  — "  Why  did  you 
brag  of  your  uncle,  of  your  correspondence? 
What  had  I  to  do  with  that?  All  your  letters  are 
intact,  are  n't  they?  " 

"  The  letters  are  intact;  but  I  was  in  such  a  con- 
dition last  night  that  you  might  easily  have  .  .  .  ." 

"  In  short,  my  dear  sir,"— I  interposed,  inten- 

86 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

tionally  speaking  as  loudly  as  I  could, — "  I  re- 
quest you  to  leave  me  in  peace,  do  you  hear?  I 
don't  want  to  know  anything  about  it,  and  I  shall 
explain  nothing  to  you.  Go  to  that  person  for 
explanations!"  (I  felt  my  head  beginning  to 
reel. ) 

Asanoff  darted  at  me  a  glance  to  which  he, 
obviously,  endeavoured  to  impart  an  expression 
of  sneering  penetration,  plucked  at  his  moustache, 
and  rose  without  haste. 

"  I  know  now  what  I  am  bound  to  think,"  — 
said  he:  —  "your  face  is  the  best  proof  against 
you.  But  I  must  observe  to  you  that  well-bred 
persons  do  not  behave  in  this  manner.  .  .  .  To 
read  a  letter  b}-  stealth,  and  then  to  go  to  a  well- 
born young  girl  and  worry  her  is  .  .  .  ." 

"  Go  to  the  devil!  "  —  I  shouted,  stamping  my 
foot:  — "  and  send  your  second  to  me;  I  have  no 
intention  of  discussing  the  matter  with  j^ou." 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  not  instruct  me," — re- 
torted Asanoff,  coldly:  — "and  I  was  intending 
to  send  my  second  to  you." 

He  went  away.  I  fell  back  on  the  divan,  and 
covered  my  eyes  with  my  hands.  Some  one 
touched  me  on  tlie  shoulder;  I  removed  my  hands 
—  in  front  of  me  stood  Pasynkoff. 

"What  is  this?  Is  it  true?"  ...  he  asked 
me.  —  "  Hast  thou  read  another  person's  letter?  " 

I  had  not  the  strength  to  answer  him,  but 
nodded  my  head  affirmatively. 

87 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Piisynkoir  walked  to  the  window,  and,  stand- 
ino-  with  his  back  to  me,  said  slowly:  "  Thou  hast 
read  a  letter  from  a  young  girl  to  AsanofF.  Who 
is  the  girl?  " 

"  Sofya  Zlotnitzky,"  —  I  replied,  as  a  con- 
demned man  answers  his  judge. 

For  a  long  time  PasvnkofF  did  not  utter  a 
word. 

"  Passion  alone  can  excuse  thee,  to  a  certain 
extent," — he  began,  at  last.  — "  Art  thou  in  love 
with  Miss  Zlotnitzky?  " 

"  Yes." 

Again  PasynkofF  held  Iiis  peace  for  a  while. 

"  I  thought  so.  And  to-day  thou  didst  go  to 
her  and  begin  to  upbraid  her.  ..." 

Yes,  yes,  yes  .  .  .  ."I  said  in  desperation. — 

Now  thou  mayest  despise  me.  .  .  ." 

PasynkofF  paced  up  and  down  the  room  a  cou- 
ple of  times. 

"  And  does  she  love  him?  " — he  asked. 

"  She  does.  .  .  ." 

PasynkofF  drojjped  his  eyes,  and  stared  for  a 
long  time  immovably  at  the  floor. 

"  Well,  this  must  be  put  right," — he  began, 
raising  his  head: — "things  cannot  be  left  like 
this." 

And  he  picked  up  his  hat. 

"  Whither  art  thou  going?  " 

"  To  AsanofF." 

I  sprang  from  the  divan. 

88 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"But  I  will  not  permit  thee.  Good  heavens! 
how  canst  thou  do  so?  !    What  will  he  think?  " 

PasynkofF  cast  a  glance  at  me. 

"  And  is  it  better,  in  thy  opinion,  to  let  his  foll\- 
proceed,  to  ruin  thyself,  and  disgrace  the  girl?  " 

"  But  what  wilt  thou  say  to  Asanoff  ?  " 

*'  I  shall  try  to  bring  him  to  his  senses;  I  shall 
say  that  thou  dost  beg  his  pardon.  .  .  ." 

"  But  I  won't  beg  his  pardon!  " 

"  Thou  wilt  not?     Art  not  thou  guilty?  " 

I  looked  at  Pasynkoff :  the  calm  and  stern 
though  sad  expression  of  his  face  impressed  me; 
it  was  a  new  one  to  me.  I  made  no  reply,  and  sat 
down  on  the  divan. 

Pasynkoff  left  the  room. 

With  what  torturing  anguish  did  I  wait  his  re- 
turn! With  what  cruel  sluggishness  did  the  time 
])ass!     At  last  he  returned— late. 

"  Well,  how  are  things?  " 

"God  be  thanked!"— he  replied.  — "  Every- 
thing is  made  up." 

"  Hast  thou  been  to  AsanofF?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  Well,  how  about  him?  He  made  wry  faces, 
I  su])y)ose,"— I  said  with  an  effort. 

"  Xo,  I  will  not  say  tliat.  I  expected  more. 
....  He  ....  is  not  the  vulgar  man  T  had 
thought  him." 

"  Well,  and  hast  tliou  not  been  to  see  any  one 
except  him?  "  —  I  asked,  after  waiting  a  little. 

89 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

*'  I  liave  been  to  see  tlie  Zlotiiitzkys." 

"All!"  ....  (jNly  heart  began  to  beat  vio- 
lently. I  (lid  not  dare  to  look  Pasynkoff  in  the 
eye.)  — "  Well,  and  how  about  her?  " 

"  Sofya  Nikolaevna  is  a  sensible  girl,  a  kind- 
hearted  girl.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  is  a  good  girl.  At 
first  it  was  awkward  for  her,  but  afterward  she 
recovered  her  com])osure.  However,  our  entire 
conversation  did  not  last  more  than  five  minutes." 

"  And  didst  thou  ....  tell  her  ....  every- 
thing ....  about  me?" 

"  I  told  her  what  was  necessary." 

"  Henceforth,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  to  see 
them!"  —  I  said  dejectedly.  .  .  . 

"Why  not?  Yes,  yes;  thou  may  est  occasion- 
ally. On  the  contrary,  thou  must  call  on  them, 
without  fail,  lest  they  should  imagine  some- 
thing. .  .  ." 

"  Akh,  Yiikoff,  thou  wilt  despise  me  now!  " — I 
exclaimed,  hardly  restraining  my  tears. 

"I?  Despise  thee?"  .  .  .  (His  affectionate 
eyes  warmed  up  with  love.)  — "Despise  thee  .... 
stupid  man!  Was  it  easy  for  thee,  pray?  Didst 
not  thou  suffer?  " 

He  extended  his  hand  to  me;  I  rushed  to  him 
and  fell,  sobbing,  on  his  neck. 

After  the  lapse  of  several  days,  in  the  course 
of  which  I  was  able  to  observe  that  Pasynkoff 
was  very  much  out  of  sorts,  I  finally  made  up  my 

90 


I 

I 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

mind  to  call  on  the  Zlotnitzkys.  It  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  convey  in  words  what  I  felt  when  I  en- 
tered their  drawing-room.  I  remember  that  I 
could  barely  distinguish  faces,  and  that  my  voice 
broke  in  my  throat.  And  Sofya  was  no  more  at 
ease  than  I  was:  she  evidently  forced  herself  to 
converse  with  me,  but  her  eyes  avoided  mine  just 
as  my  eyes  avoided  hers,  and  in  her  every  move- 
ment, in  her  whole  being,  there  peered  forth  con- 
straint, mingled  with  .  .  .  why  conceal  the  truth? 
.  .  .  with  a  secret  repulsion.  I  endeavoured  as 
speedily  as  possible,  to  free  both  her  and  myself 
from  such  painful  sensations.  This  meeting  was, 
happily,  the  last  ....  before  her  marriage.  A 
sudden  change  in  my  fate  took  me  to  the  other 
end  of  Russia,  and  I  bade  farewell  for  a  long 
time  to  Petersburg,  to  the  Zlotnitzky  family,  and, 
what  was  more  painful  to  me  than  all  else,  to 
kind  Yakoff  Pasynkofi". 

II 

Seven  years  elapsed.  I  do  not  consider  it  neces- 
sary to  relate  precisely  what  happened  to  me  in 
the  course  of  all  that  time.  I  wore  myself  out 
^^■ith  travelling  all  over  Russia;  I  went  into  the 
wilds  and  the  remote  parts— and,  thank  God!  the 
uilds  and  the  remote  ])arts  are  not  so  dreadful 
as  some  people  think,  and  in  the  most  hidden 
nooks  of  the  forest,  dreaming  in  primeval  dense- 

91 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

ness,  under  fallen  trees  and  thickets,  grow  fra- 
<^rant  flowers. 

One  day  in  spring,  as  I  was  passing,  on  busi- 
ness connected  with  the  service,  through  the  small 
county  town  of  one  of  the  remote  Governments 
of  eastern  Russia,  through  the  dim  little  win- 
dow of  my  tarantas  I  caught  sight  of  a  man 
on  the  square,  in  front  of  a  shop,  —  a  man  whose 
face  seemed  extremely  familiar  to  me.  I  took 
a  second  look  at  this  man  and,  to  my  no  small 
delight,  recognised  in  him  Elisyei,  Pasynkoff's 
servant. 

I  immediately  ordered  my  postilion  to  halt, 
sprang  out  of  the  tarantas,  and  approached 
Elisyei. 

"  Good  morning,  brother!  "  —  I  said,  with  diffi- 
cult}^ concealing  my  agitation:  —  "art  thou  here 
with  thy  master?  " 

"  Yes," — he  re]:)lied  slowly,  then  suddenly  cried 
out:  — "  Akh,  dear  little  father,  is  it  5'ou?  And 
I  did  n't  recognise  you!  " 

"  Art  thou  here  with  YakofF  Ivanitch?  " 

"  I  am,  dear  little  father,  I  am.  .  .  .  And  with 
whom  else  should  I  be?  " 

"  Lead  me  to  him  as  speedily  as  possible." 

"  Certainly,  certainly!  This  way,  please,  this 
way.  .  .  .  We  are  stopping  here  in  the  inn." 

And  Elisyei  conducted  me  across  the  square, 
incessantly  repeating:  "  Well,  and  how  delighted 
YakofF  iVanitch  will  be!" 

92 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

This  Elisyei,  of  Kalmyk  extraction,  a  man  of 
extremely  hideous  and  even  fierce  aspect,  but  the 
kindest  of  souls,  and  far  from  stupid,  was  pas- 
sionately attached  to  PasynkofF,  and  had  been 
in  his  service  for  ten  years. 

"  How  is  YakofF  Ivanitch's  health?  "  —  I  asked 
him. 

Elisvei  turned  toward  me  his  small,  dark-vel- 
low  face. 

"  Akh,  dear  little  father,  't  is  bad  .  .  bad, 
dear  little  father!  You  will  not  recognise  liim. 
...  I  don't  believe  he  has  long  to  live  in  this 
world.  That 's  the  reason  we  settled  down  here, 
for  we  were  on  our  waj^  to  Odessa  for  the  cure."  ^ 

"  Whence  come  you?  " 

"  From  Siberia,  dear  little  father." 

"  From  Siberia?  " 

"  Just  so,  sir.  YakofF  Ivanitch  has  been  in  the 
service  there.  And  it  was  there  he  received  his 
wound,  sir." 

"  Has  he  been  in  the  military  service?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.     Pie  was  in  the  civil  service, 


5> 

Sir. 


"  What  marvels  are  these?  !  "  I  thought.  In 
tlie  meantime,  we  had  drawn  near  the  inn,  and 
Khsyei  ran  on  ahead  to  announce  me.  During 
tlic  first  years  of  our  separation,  PasynkofF  and  I 
liad  written  to  each  other  pretty  frequently,  but 

^  The  famous  salt-w.itcr  and  mud  baths  in  the  vicinity 
of  Odessa.  —  'I'ka  nslatoii. 

93 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

I  liad  received  bis  last  letter  four  years  previous 
to  this,  aiul  from  that  time  onward  had  known 
nothing  about  him. 

"  Please  come  in,  sir;  please  come  in,  sir!  "  — 
Elisyei  shouted  to  me  from  tlie  staircase:  — 
"  Yakoff  Ivanitch  is  very  anxious  to  see  you, 


sir. 


I  ran  hastily  up  the  rickety  stairs,  entered  a 
dark  little  room— and  my  heart  sank  within  me. 
....  On  a  narrow  bed,  under  his  uniform  cloak, 
pale  as  death,  lay  Pasynkoff ,  stretching  out  to  me 
his  bare,  emaciated  hand.  I  rushed  to  him  and 
clasped  him  in  a  convulsive  embrace. 

"Yasha!"— I  cried  at  last:— "What  ails 
thee?  " 

"  Nothing," — he  replied  in  a  weak  voice.  —  "  I 
am  not  very  well.  How  in  the  world  do  j^ou  come 
to  be  here?  " 

I  sat  down  on  a  chair  beside  PasynkofF's  bed 
and,  without  releasing  his  hands  from  mine,  I 
began  to  gaze  into  his  face.  I  recognised  the  fea- 
tures which  were  so  dear  to  me:  the  expression 
of  his  eyes  and  his  smile  had  not  changed,  but 
how  sickness  had  altered  him! 

He  noticed  the  impression  Avhich  he  produced 
on  me. 

"  I  have  not  shaved  for  three  days,"— he  said: 
— "  well,  and  my  hair  is  not  brushed  either,  but 
otherwise  I  ....  I  'm  all  right." 

"  Tell  me,  please,  Yasha,"— I  began:—"  what 

94 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

is  this  Elisyei  has  been  teUiiig  me.  .  .  .  Thou  art 
wounded  ? ' ' 

"  All!  yes;  that  's  a  whole  history  in  itself,"— 
he  rephed.  — "  I  "11  tell  thee  about  that  later  on. 
I  really  was  wounded,  and  just  fancy  by  what? 
An  arrow." 

"  An  arrow?  " 

"  Yes,  an  arrow;  only  not  the  mythological  one, 
not  the  dart  of  love,  but  a  real  arrow  made  from 
some  extremely  supple  wood,  with  an  artful  sharp 
tip  on  the  end. .  .  .  Such  an  arrow  produces  a  very 
un2:)leasant  sensation,  especially  when  it  lands  in 
the  lungs." 

"  But  how  did  it  happen?    Good  gracious.  .  .  ." 

"  This  way.  As  thou  knowest,  there  has  always 
been  a  great  deal  that  was  ridiculous  about  my 
fate.  Dost  thou  remember  my  comical  correspon- 
dence in  connection  with  demanding  my  papers? 
Well,  and  so  I  was  wounded  in  an  absurd  way 
also.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  what  well-bred 
man,  in  our  enlightened  century,  permits  himself 
to  deal  W'Ounds  with  an  arrow?  And  not  acci- 
dentally— observe,  not  during  some  games  or 
other,  but  in  conflict." 

"  Yes;  but  still  thou  dost  not  tell  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Here  now,  wait  a  ])it,"  —  he  interrupted. — 
"  Thou  knowest  tliat  shortly  after  thy  departure 
from  Petersburg,  I  was  transferred  to  Novgorod. 
I  spent  quite  a  long  time  in  Novgorod,  and,  I 
must  confess  that  1  was  bored,  although   I   did 

95 


YAKOFF  rxVSYNKOFF 

meet  there  a  certain  being.  .  .  ."  (He  heaved  a 
sigh)  .  .  .  .  "  Bnt  there  's  no  time  to  go  into 
that  now;  but  a  eou]3lc  of  years  ago  a  splendid 
httle  post  fell  to  my  lot,  a  trifle  distant,  't  is  true, 
in  the  Government  of  Irkutsk,  but  what  's  the 
harm  in  that!  Fvidently,  it  was  written  in  my 
father's  fate  and  in  mine  that  we  should  visit  Si- 
beria. A  glorious  land  is  Siberia!  Rich  and 
fertile,  as  any  one  will  tell  you.  I  liked  it  very 
much  there.  The  natives  of  foreign  stock  were 
under  my  authority ;  a  peaceable  folk ;  but  to  my 
misfortune  a  score  of  their  men,  no  more,  took 
it  into  their  heads  to  smuggle  contraband  goods. 
I  was  sent  to  seize  them.  So  far  as  seizing  them 
is  concerned,  I  effected  that,  but  one  of  them, 
out  of  caprice,  it  must  have  been,  tried  to  defend 
himself,  and  treated  me  to  that  arrow.  ...  I 
came  near  djnng,  but  recovered.  And  now  here  I 
am  on  my  way  to  make  a  final  cure.  .  .  The  au- 
thorities have  given  the  money, — may  God  grant 
them  all  health!  " 

PasynkofF,  completely  exhausted,  dropped  his 
head  on  the  pillow,  and  ceased  speaking.  A  faint 
flush  spread  over  his  cheeks.    He  closed  his  ej^es. 

"  He  cannot  talk  much,"  —  said  Elisyei,  who 
had  not  left  the  room,  in  an  undertone. 

"  Here  now," — he  went  on,  opening  his  eyes: — 
*'  I  must  have  caught  cold.  The  local  district  doc- 
tor is  attending  me,  —  thou  wilt  see  him;  he  ap- 
pears to  know  his  business.     But  I  am  glad  it 

96 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

has  happened,  because,  otherwise,  how  could  I 
have  met  thee?"  (And  he  clasped  my  hand. 
His  hand,  which  shortly  before  had  been  as  cold 
as  ice,  was  now  burning  hot.)  — "  Tell  me  some- 
thing about  thyself,"— he  began  again,  throwing 
his  cloak  off  his  breast:  —  "  for  God  knows  when 
we  shall  see  each  other  again." 

I  hastened  to  com]jly  with  his  wish,  if  only  to 
prevent  his  talking,  and  began  my  narration.  At 
first  he  listened  to  me  with  great  attention,  then 
asked  for  a  drink,  then  began  to  close  his  eyes 
again  and  to  throw  his  head  about  on  the  pillow. 
I  advised  him  to  take  a  little  nap,  adding  that  I 
would  not  proceed  further  until  he  should  re- 
cover, and  would  establish  myself  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room. 

"  Things  are  very  wretched  here,"  ....  Pa- 
synkofF  was  beginning;  but  I  sto])ped  liis  mouth 
and  softly  left  the  room.     Elisyei  followed  me 

out. 

"  What  's  the  meaning  of  this,  P^lisyei?  Why, 
he  is  dying,  is  n't  he?  "  —  I  asked  the  faithful  ser- 
vant. 

Elisyei  merely  waved  liis  hand  in  despair,  and 
turned  away. 

Having  dismissed  my  ])ostili()n,  and  luistily  es- 
tablished myself  in  the  adjoining  room,  I  went 
to  see  whether  Ptisynkoff  had  faUen  asleep.  At 
his  door  T  collided  with  a  tall,  very  fat  and  heavy 
man.    His  puffy,  pock-marked  face  expressed  in 

1)7 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

dolcnce — and  notliinp^  else,  his  tiny  eyes  were  all 
but  closed,  and  liis  li])s  glistened  as  though  after 
sleep. 

"  Allow  me  to  inquire,"  —  I  asked  him,  "  whe- 
ther you  are  not  tlie  doctor?  " 

The  fat  man  looked  at  me,  after  having,  with 
an  effort  elevated  his  overhanging  forehead  with 
his  eyebrows. 

"  I  am,  sir,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Will  not  you  do  me  the  favour  to  come  this 
way  to  my  room,  doctor?  I  think  Yakoff  Ivanitch 
is  asleep  at  present.  I  am  his  friend,  and  I  should 
like  to  have  a  talk  with  you  about  his  malady, 
which  causes  me  great  anxiety." 

"  Very  good,  sir," — replied  the  doctor,  with  an 
expression  which  seemed  to  say:  "  What  in  the 
world  possesses  you  to  talk  so  much?  I  would 
have  gone  any  way,"  and  followed  me. 

"  Tell  me,  please," — I  began,  as  soon  as  he 
had  dropped  down  on  a  chair:  "is  my  friend's 
condition  dangerous?    What  do  you  think?  " 

"  Yes," — calmly  replied  the  fat  man. 

"  And  ....  is  it  very  critical?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

"  So  that  he  may  even  ....  die?  " 

"  Yes." 

I  must  confess  that  I  gazed  at  my  interlocutor 
almost  with  hatred. 

"  Good  gracious!  " — I  began:  "  then  we  must 
resort  to  some  measures,  call  a  consultation,  or 

98 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

something.  .  .  .  Why,  things  cannot  be  left  in 
this  condition.  .  .  Good  heavens!" 

"A  consultation?— That  can  be  done.  Why 
not?    We  might  call  in  Ivan  Efremitch.  .  .  ." 

The  doctor  spoke  with  difficulty,  and  sighed 
incessantly.  His  belly  heaved  visibly,  when  he 
spoke,  as  though  ejecting  every  word  with  an 
effort. 

"  Who  is  Ivan  Efremitch?  " 

"  The  town  doctor." 

"  Would  n't  it  be  better  to  send  to  the  capital 
of  the  government  — what  think  you?  There  cer- 
tainly must  be  good  physicians  there." 

"  Why  not?    We  might  do  that." 

"  And  who  is  considered  to  be  the  best  physician 
there?  " 

"  The  best?  There  was  a  Dr.  Kohlrabus  there 
....  onlv,  I  — I  rather  think  he  has  been  trans- 
ferred  somewhere  else.  However,  I  must  confess 
tliat  there  is  no  necessity  for  sending." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Even  the  governmental  doctor  cannot  help 
your  friend." 

"  Is  it  possible  tliat  he  is  as  bad  as  that?  " 

"  Yes,  exactly  that;  he  's  done  for." 

"  What,  in  particular,  is  his  ailment?  " 

"  He  lias  received  a  wound.  .  .  The  lungs  have 
been  injured,  you  know.  .  .  ^Vcll,  and  then  he 
has  caught  cold,  and  fever  has  set  in  ...  .  well, 
and  so  forth.  .  .  And  he  has  no  reserve  force.    A 

99 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

man  can't  recover  without  reserve  force,  as  you 
know  yourself." 

We  lK)th  remained  silent  for  a  while. 

"  We  might  try  homeopathy,"  —  said  the  fat 
man,  darting  a  sidelong  glance  at  me. 

"Homeopathy?  Why,  you  are  an  allopath, 
are  you  not?  " 

"  Well,  and  what  if  I  am  an  allopath !  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  about  homeopathy?  Just  as 
well  as  anybody.  Our  apothecary  here  gives 
homeopathic  treatment,  and  he  has  no  learned 
degree." 

"  Well!  " — I  said  to  myself:  "  things  are  in  a 
bad  way!  ....  No,  doctor,"  I  said:  "you  had 
better  treat  him  by  your  usual  method." 

"  As  you  like,  sir." 

The  fat  man  rose,  and  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  Are  you  going  to  him?  "  —  I  inquired. 

"  Yes;  I  must  take  a  look  at  him." 

And  he  left  the  room. 

I  did  not  follow  him.  It  was  more  than  my 
strength  would  bear  to  see  him  at  the  bedside  of 
my  poor  friend.  I  called  my  man  and  ordered 
him  to  drive  immediately  to  the  capital  of  the 
government,  and  inquire  there  for  the  best  phy- 
sician, and  bring  him,  without  fail.  There  came 
a  rapping  in  the  corridor;  I  opened  the  door 
quickly. 

The  doctor  had  already  come  out  of  Pasyn- 
kofF's  room. 

100 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

*'  Well,  how  is  he?  "  —  I  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  All  right;  I  have  prescribed  a  potion." 

"  I  have  decided,  doctor,  to  send  to  the  govern- 
ment town.  I  do  not  doubt  your  skill;  but  you 
know  yourself  that  two  heads  are  better  than 
one. 

"  Yery  well,  that  's  laudable!  "—returned  the 
fat  man,  and  began  to  descend  the  stairs.  Evi- 
dently, I  bored  him. 

I  went  to  Pasynkoif . 

"  Hast  thou  seen  the  local  ^sculapius?  "—he 
asked  me. 

"Yes,"— I  replied. 

"  What  I  like  about  him,"— remarked  Pasyn- 
koff,  — "  is  his  wonderful  composure.  A  doctor 
ought  to  be  phlegmatic,  ought  n't  he?  That  is 
very  encouraging  for  the  patient." 

As  a  matter  of  course,  I  did  not  attemj)t  to 
persuade  him  to  tlie  contrary. 

Toward  evening,  contrary  to  my  anticipations, 
Pasynkoff  felt  more  at  ease.  He  requested  Eli- 
syei  to  prepare  the  samovar,  announced  that  he 
was  going  to  treat  me  to  tea,  and  would  drink  a 
cup  liimself,  and  he  was  perceptibh  more  cheer- 
ful. Nevertheless,  I  endeavoured  to  prevent  liis 
talking;  and  perceiving  that  he  was  absolutely  de- 
termined not  to  be  quiet,  I  asked  him  if  he  did 
not  wish  me  to  read  something  aloud  to  him. 

"  As  we  used  to  do  at  Winterkeller's  —  dost 
thou  remember?" — he  replied:  "Certainly,  with 

lOi 


YAKOFF  FASYNKOFF 

pleasure.     What  shall  we  read?     I^ook  over  my 
books,  yonder  on  the  window-sill.  .   .   ." 

I  went  to  the  window  and  took  up  the  first  book 
whieh  eame  to  hand.  .  .  . 

"  What  is  that?  "—he  asked. 

"  Ferniontoff ." 

"  Ah,  LermontofF!  Very  good  indeed!  Push- 
kin is  higher,  of  course.  .  .  .  Dost  thou  remem- 
ber: '  Again  the  storm-clouds  over  me  have  gath- 
ered in  the  gloom,'  ....  or:  '  For  the  last  time 
thine  image  dear,  I  dare  caress  in  mind.'  Akh, 
how  wonderfully  fine!  wonderfully  fine!  But 
LermontofF  is  good  also.  Come  here,  brother, 
take  and  open  the  book  at  haphazard,  and  read!  " 

I  opened  the  book  and  was  disconcerted ;  I  had 
hit  upon  "  The  Testament."  I  tried  to  turn  over 
the  leaf,  but  Pasynkoff  noticed  my  movement, 
and  said  hastilj^:  "No,  no,  no!  Read  where  it 
opened." 

There  w^as  no  help  for  it;  I  read  "  The  Testa- 
ment." 

"A  splendid  thing!" — remarked  Pasynkoff, 
as  soon  as  I  had  uttered  the  last  line.  — "  A  splen- 
did thing!  But  it  is  strange," — he  added,  after 
a  brief  pause, — "  it  is  strange  that  thou  shouldst 
have  hit  upon  '  The  Testament,'  of  all  things.  .  .  . 
Strange!  " 

I  began  to  read  another  poem,  but  Pasynkoff 
did  not  listen  to  me,  gazed  to  one  side,  and  re- 
peated  "  strange!  "  a  couple  of  times  more. 

102 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

I  dropped  the  book  on  my  knees. 

"  '  They  have  a  Uttle  neighbour,'  " — he  whis= 
pered,  and  suddenly  turning  to  me,  he  asked  j 
"  Dost  thou  remember  Sofva  Zlotnitzkv?  " 

I  flushed  scarlet. 

"  How  can  I  help  remembering?  !  " 

"  She  married,  did  n't  she?  "  .  c  . 

"  Yes ;  she  married  AsanoiF,  long  ago.  I  wrote 
thee  about  that." 

"  Exactly,  exactly  so,  thou  didst  write.  Did 
her  father  forgive  her  in  the  end?  " 

"  Yes;  but  he  would  not  receive  AsanofF." 

"  The  stubborn  old  man!  Well,  and  what  dost 
thou  hear  about  it?     Do  they  live  happily?" 

"  I  really  do  not  know.  ...  I  think  they  do. 
They  are  living  in  the  country,  in  the  ***  Gov- 
ernment ;  I  have  not  seen  them ;  but  I  have  driven 
past." 

"  And  have  they  children?  " 

"  I  believe  so.  .  .  By  the  way,  PasynkofF?  " — I 
asked. 

He  glanced  at  me. 

"  Confess, — I  remember  that  thou  wouldst 
not  answer  m}^  question  at  the  time;  thou  didst 
tell  her  that  I  was  in  love  with  her,  didst  thou 
not?" 

"  I  told  her  everything,  the  whole  truth.  .  .  I 
always  spoke  the  truth  to  her.  To  have  concealed 
anytliin^c  from  her  would  have  been  a  sin!  " 

Pasynkofl*  ceased  speaking. 

103 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  Come,  tell  me,"— he  began  again:  "  didst  thou 
get  over  thy  love  for  her  ])romptly  or  not?  " 

"Not  very  promj)tly;  but  1  did  get  over  it. 
What  's  the  use  of  sighing  in  vain?  " 

PiisynkofF  turned  his  face  toward  me. 

"  But  I,  mj"  dear  fellow," — he  began,  and  his 
lips  quivered,  —  "  am  no  match  for  thee;  I  have  n't 
got  over  my  love  for  her  to  this  day." 

"What!"— I  exclaimed  with  inexpressible 
amazement.  — "  Wert  thou  in  love  with  her?  " 

"  I  was,"  —  said  Pasj^nkoff,  slowly,  raising 
both  hands  to  his  head.  —  "  How  I  loved  her  God 
alone  knows.  I  never  spoke  of  it  to  any  one  in 
the  world,  and  never  meant  to  mention  it  to  any 
one  ....  but  it  has  come  out!  '  I  have  but  a 
brief  wliile  to  live  in  this  world,'  they  say.  ,  .  » 
So  it  does  not  matter!  " 

Pasynkoff 's  unexpected  confession  astounded 
me  to  such  a  degree  that  I  was  positively 
unable  to  utter  a  word,  and  merely  thought: 
"  Is  it  possible?  how  is  it  that  I  did  not  suspect 
this?" 

"  Yes," — he  went  on,  as  though  talking  to  him- 
self:— "  I  loved  her.  I  did  not  cease  to  love  her, 
even  M'hen  I  learned  that  her  heart  belonged  to 
AsanofF.  But  it  pained  me  to  learn  that !  If  she 
had  fallen  in  love  with  thee,  I  would,  at  all  events, 
have  rejoiced  on  thy  account;  but  Asanoff.  .  .  . 
How  could  he  please  her?  It  was  his  luck!  And 
she  was  not  able  to  be  unfaithful  to  her  feeling, 

104 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

to  cease  to  love  him.  An  honourable  soul  does 
not  change.  .  .  ." 

I  recalled  AsanofF's  visit  after  the  fatal  din- 
ner, PasvnkofF's  intervention,  and  involuntarily 
clasped  my  hands. 

"  Thou  didst  learn  all  that  from  me,  poor  fel- 
low!"—  I  exclaimed:  —  "and  thou  didst  take  it 
upon  thyself  to  go  to  her,  nevertheless!  " 

"  Yes,"  — said  PasynkofF:  —  "that  explanation 
with  her — I  shall  never  forget  it.  It  was  then  I 
learned,  it  was  then  I  understood  the  meaning 
of  the  motto  I  had  long  before  chosen  for  myself : 
'  Resignation.'  But  she  still  remained  my  con- 
stant dream,  my  ideal.  .  .  .  And  pitiable  is  he 
who  lives  without  an  ideal!  " 

I  glanced  at  PasynkofF;  his  eyes  seemed  to  be 
fixed  on  the  distance,  and  blazed  with  a  feverish 
i^leam. 

"I  loved  her,"  —  he  went  on:  —  "I  loved  her, 
her,  quiet,  honourable,  inaccessible,  incorruptible; 
when  she  went  away,  I  became  nearly  crazed  with 
grief.  ...  I  have  never  loved  any  one  since.  .  .  ." 

^\nd  suddenly,  turning  round,  he  pressed  his 
face  to  his  pillow,  and  fell  to  weeping  softly. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet,  bent  over  him,  and  began 
to  comfort  him.  .  .  . 

"  Never  mind,"  — he  said,  raising  his  head,  and 
shaking  back  his  hair:  —  "  I  did  n't  mean  to  do 
it.  I  feel  rather  sad,  rather  sorry  ....  for  my- 
self, that  is  to  say.  .  .  .  But  it  is  of  no  conse- 

105 


YAKOFF  FASYNKOFF 

qiiencc.     Tlie  poetry  is  to  blame  Cor  it  all.     Read 
me  some  other  ])oems — something"  more  cheerful." 

I  took  uj)  Lermoiitoff,  and  began  hastily  to 
turn  over  the  leaves;  but,  as  though  expressly,  I 
kept  hitting  upon  poems  which  might  again  agi- 
tate PiisynkofF.  At  last  I  read  him  "  The  Gifts 
of  the  Terek." 

"Rhetorical  crackling!" — remarked  my  poor 
friend,  in  the  tone  of  an  instructor:  — "  but  there 
are  good  places!  I  tried  my  hand  at  jioetry  my- 
self, my  dear  fellow,  in  thine  absence,  and  began 
a  poem:  '  The  Beaker  of  Life,' — but  it  came  to 
nothing!  my  business,  brother,  is  to  sympathise, 
not  to  create.  .  .  .  But  I  feel  tired,  somehow;  I 
believe  I  had  better  take  a  nap — what  dost  thou 
think  ?  AVhat  a  splendid  thing  sleep  is,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it!  All  our  life  is  a  dream,  and 
the  best  thing  in  it  is  sleep." 

"  And  poetry?  " — I  asked. 

"  Poetry  is  a  dream  also,  only  a  dream  of  para- 
dise." 

PasynkofF  closed  his  eyes. 

I  stood  for  a  while  beside  his  bed.  I  did  not 
think  that  he  could  get  to  sleep  quickly;  but  his 
breathing  became  more  even  and  prolonged.  I 
stole  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe,  returned  to  my 
own  ch\  mber,  and  lay  down  on  the  divan.  For 
a  long  time  I  reflected  on  what  Pasynkoff  had 
told  me,  recalled  many  things,  marvelled,  and,  at 
last,  fell  asleep  myself.  .  .  . 

106 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

Some  one  nudged  me :  before  me  stood  Elisyei. 

"  Please  come  to  my  master," — he  said. 

I  rose  at  once. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  " 

"  He  is  dehrious." 

"  Dehrious?    And  he  has  not  been  so  before?  " 

"Yes;  he  was  dehrious  last  night  also;  but 
somehow  it  is  dreadful  to-night." 

I  entered  PasynkofF's  room.  He  was  not  ly- 
ing on  his  bed,  but  sitting  up,  with  his  whole  body 
])ent  forward,  softly  throwing  his  hands  apart, 
smiling  and  talking— talking  incessantly  in  a 
weak,  toneless  voice,  like  the  rustling  of  reeds. 
His  eyes  were  wandering.  The  melancholy  light 
of  the  night-taper,  placed  on  tlie  floor,  and 
screened  by  a  book,  lay  in  a  motionless  patch  on 
the  ceiling;  Pasynkofl"s  face  looked  paler  than 
ever  in  the  half  gloom. 

I  went  up  to  him,  called  him  by  name— he  did 
not  reply.  I  began  to  listen  to  his  mumblings: 
he  was  raving  about  Siberia,  about  its  forests.  xVt 
times  there  was  sense  in  his  ravings. 

"What  trees!"  — he  whispered:  "they  reach 
to  the  very  sky.  How  much  lioar-frost  tliere  is  on 
them!  Silver.  .  .  .  Snow-drifts And  yon- 
der are  little  tracks  ....  a  hare  has  leaped 
along,  or  a  wliite  ermine.  .  .  .  Xo,  it  is  my  fa- 
ther wIk)  lias  run  past  with  my  i)apers.  Yonder 
lie  is!  .  .  .  Yonder  he  is!  I  must  go;  the  moon 
is  shining.     I  must  go  and  find  my  papers.  .  .  . 

107 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

All,  a  flower,  a  scarlet  flower — Sofya  is  there.  .  .  ► 
There,  little  bells  are  ringing,  oh,  it  is  the  frost 
ringing.  .  .  Akh,  no;  it  is  the  stupid  bull-finches 
hopping  in  the  bushes,  and  whistling.  .  .  .  See 
the  red-breasted  warblers!  It  is  cold.  .  .  .  Ah! 
there  is  Asanoff".  .  .  .  Akh,  yes,  he  is  a  cannon, 
you  know — a  brass  cannon,  and  his  gun-carriage 
is  green.  That  is  why  he  pleases  people.  Was 
that  a  shooting-star?  No,  it  is  an  arrow  flying. 
....  Akh,  how  swiftly,  and  straight  at  my 
heart!  ....  Who  is  that  shooting?  Thou,  S6- 
netchka?  " 

He  bent  his  head  and  began  to  whisper  incoher- 
ent words.  I  glanced  at  Elisyei;  he  was  stand- 
ing with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  and 
gazing  compassionately  at  his  master. 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  hast  thou  become  a 
practical  man?" — he  suddenly  inquired,  fixing 
on  me  a  glance  so  clear,  so  full  of  intelligence, 
that  I  gave  an  involuntary  start,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  answering,  but  he  immediately  went  on : 
— "  But  I,  brother,  have  not  become  a  practical 
man,  I  have  not  done  that  which  thou  wilt  do! 
I  was  born  a  dreamer,  a  dreamer!  Dreams, 
dreams.  .  .  .  What  is  a  dream?  Sobakevitch's 
peasant,  —  that  's  what  a  dream  is.    Okh!  .  .  .  ." 

Pasynkoff"  raved  until  nearly  daylight;  at  last, 
he  quieted  down  a  little,  sank  back  on  his  pillow, 
and  fell  into  a  doze.    I  returned  to  my  own  room. 

108 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Exhausted  by  the  cruel  night,  I  fell  into  a  heavy 
slumber. 

Again  Elisyei  awakened  me. 

"  Akh,  dear  httle  father!  "—he  said  to  me  in  a 
trembling  voice:  — "I  believe  Yakoif  Ivanitch  is 
dying.  ..." 

I  ran  to  Pasynkoif .  He  was  lying  motionless. 
By  the  light  of  the  dawning  da3%  he  already 
looked  like  a  corpse.    He  recognised  me. 

"  Farewell,"— he  whispered:  — "  remember  me 
to  her,  I  am  dying.  .  .  ." 

"  Yasha!  "—I  cried:—"  don't  say  that!  Thou 
wilt  live,  ..." 

"  Xo;  what 's  the  use?  I  am  dying.  .  .  .  Here, 
take  this  in  memory  of  me  .  .  ."  (He  pointed  at 
his  breast.)    .... 

"  What  is  this?  " — he  suddenly  began  to  speak 
again:  —  "  Look!  the  sea  ....  all  golden;  on  it 
are  blue  islands,  marble  temples,  palms,  in- 
cense. .  .  ." 

He  fell  silent  ....  dropped  liis  eyes.  .  .  . 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  dead.  Elisyei  fell, 
weeping,  on  his  breast.     I  closed  his  e^^es. 

On  his  neck  was  a  small  silken  amulet,  attached 
to  a  })lack  cord.    I  took  ])ossession  of  it. 

On  the  third  day  he  was  buried.  .  .  .  The  no- 
blest of  hearts  had  vanished  forever  from  tlie 
world!  I  myself  flung  the  first  handful  of  earth 
on  him. 

109 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 


III 

Another  year  and  a  half  passed.  Business 
forced  me  to  go  to  INIoseow.  I  established  my- 
self in  one  of  the  best  hotels  there.  One  day,  as 
I  was  passing  along  the  corridor,  I  glanced  at 
tlie  black-board  whereon  stood  the  names  of  trav- 
ellers, and  almost  cried  aloud  in  surprise:  op- 
posite No.  1  stood  the  name  of  Sofya  Nikolaevna 
AsiinofF.  I  had  accidentally  heard  much  that 
■was  evil  about  her  husband  of  late ;  I  had  learned 
that  he  had  become  passionately  addicted  to  li- 
quor and  cards;  had  ruined  himself,  and,  alto- 
gether, was  conducting  himself  badly.  People 
spoke  with  respect  of  his  wife.  .  .  .  Not  with- 
out agitation  did  I  return  to  my  own  room.  Pas- 
sion which  had  cooled  long,  long  ago,  seemed  to 
begin  to  stir  in  my  heart,  and  my  heart  began 
to  beat  violently.  I  decided  to  go  to  Sofya 
Nikolaevna.  "  What  a  long  time  has  passed 
since  the  day  we  parted,"  I  thought:  "she  has 
probably  forgotten  everything  which  took  place 
between  us  then." 

I  sent  to  her  Elisyei,  whom  I  had  taken  into 
my  service  after  Pasynkoff' s  death,  with  my 
visiting-card,  and  ordered  him  to  inquire  whether 
she  was  at  home,  and  wliether  I  could  see  her. 
Elisyei  speedily  returned,  and  announced  that 

110 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

Sofya  Xikolaevna  was  at  home,  and  would  re- 
ceive me. 

I  betook  myself  to  Sofva  Xikolaevna.  When 
I  entered,  she  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  taking  leave  of  some  tall,  stout  gentle- 
man or  other.  "As  you  like," — he  was  saying, 
in  a  thick,  sibilant  voice:  —  "he  is  not  a  harm- 
less man,  he  is  a  useless  man;  and  every  useless 
man  in  well-regulated  society  is  harmful,  harm- 
ful!" 

With  these  words,  the  tall  gentleman  left  the 
room.     Sofya  Xikolaevna  turned  to  me. 

"  What  a  long  time  it  is  since  we  met!  "  —  said 
she.  —  "  Sit  down,  I  beg  of  you.  .  .  ." 

We  sat  down.  I  looked  at  her.  .  .  .  To  be- 
hold, after  a  long  separation,  features  once  dear; 
to  recognise  them,  yet  not  to  recognise  them,  as 
though  through  the  former,  still  unforgotten  face, 
another  face— like,  yet  strange  — had  emerged; 
momentarily,  almost  involuntarily  to  note  the 
traces  imposed  by  time,  — all  this  is  sad  enough. 
"And  I,  also,  must  have  changed,"  one  thinks 
to  himself.  .  .  . 

Sofya  X'^ikolaevna  had  not  aged  greatly,  how- 
ever; but  when  I  had  seen  her  for  the  last  time, 
she  had  just  entered  her  seventeentli  year,  and 
nine  years  liad  elai)sed  since  tliat  day.  Her  fea- 
tures had  become  more  severe  and  regular  than 
ever.  As  of  old,  they  expressed  sincerity  of  feel- 
ing and  firmness;  but  in  place  of  tlieir  former 

111 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

composure,  a  certain  hidden  pain  and  anxiety 
was  manifested  in  them.  Her  eyes  had  grown 
deeper  and  darker.  She  had  come  to  resemble 
her  mother.  .  .  . 

Sofya  Xikolaevna  was  the  first  to  start  the  con- 
versation. 

"  We  are  both  changed," — she  began. — 
"  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?  " 

"  I  have  been  wandering  about  here  and 
there,"  I  replied.  —  "And  have  you  been  living  in 
the  country  all  the  wliile?  " 

"  Cliiefly  in  the  country.  And  I  am  only  pass- 
ing through  liere  now." 

"  How  are  your  parents?  " 

"  ]My  mother  is  dead,  but  my  father  is  still  in 
Petersburg;  my  brother  is  in  the  service;  Va- 
rya  lives  with  him." 

"  And  your  husband?  " 

"  My  husband?  "  —  she  said  in  a  somewhat  hur- 
ried voice:, — "  He  is  now  in  southern  Russia,  at 
the  fairs.  He  was  always  fond  of  horses,  as  you 
know,  and  he  has  set  up  a  stud-farm  of  his  own 
...  so,  for  that  purpose  ...  he  is  now  buying 
horses." 

At  that  moment  a  little  girl  of  eight  entered 
the  room,  with  her  hair  dressed  in  Chinese  fash- 
ion, a  very  sharp  and  vivacious  little  face,  and 
large,  dark-grey  eyes.  On  catching  sight  of  me, 
she  immediately  thrust  out  her  little  foot,  made 
a  swift  curtsey,  and  went  to  Sofya  Nikolaevna. 

112 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

"  Let  me  introduce  to  you  my  little  daughter," 
—  said  Sofya  Xikolaevna,  touching  the  little  girl 
with  her  finger  under  her  chubby  chin:  — "she 
would  not  consent  to  remain  at  home,  but  en- 
treated me  to  take  her  with  me." 

The  little  girl  swept  her  quick  eyes  over  me, 
and  frowned  slightly. 

"  She  's  mj  fine,  courageous  girl," — went  on 
Sofya  Xikolaevna:  — "  she  is  not  afraid  of  any- 
thing. And  she  studies  well;  I  must  praise  her 
for  that." 

"  Coniment  se  nomme  monsieur?  "—\n(\u\Yed 
the  little  girl,  in  a  low  voice,  bending  toward  her 
m6ther. 

Sofva  Xikolaevna  mentioned  my  name. 
Again  the  little  girl  glanced  at  me. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  —  I  asked  her. 

"  ^ly  name  is  Lidiya,"  — replied  the  little  girl, 
looking  me  boldly  in  the  eye. 

"  They  spoil  you,  I  supjDose,"— I  remarked. 

"  Who  spoils  me?  " 

"Who?  Why,  everybody,  I  suppose,  begin- 
ning with  your  parents."  (The  little  girl  darted 
a  silent  glance  at  her  mother.)  "  Konstantin 
Alexjindrovitch,  I  imagine,"  — I  went  on.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  yes,"  —  interposed  Sofya  Xikolaevna, 
while  her  little  daughter  did  not  remove  her  at- 
tentive gaze  from  her;  "  my  husband,  of  course 
he  is  very  fond  of  children.  .  .  ." 

A  strange  expression  flaslied  over  Lidiya's  in- 

113 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

telligent  little  face.     Her  lips  pouted  slightly; 
she  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"  Tell  me,"— hastily  added  Sofya  Nikolaevna: 
— "  you  are  here  on  business,  I  sui)pose?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  And  you  also?  " 

"  Yes;  I  also.  ...  In  my  husband's  absence, 
you  iniderstand,  I  am  forced  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness." 

"  Maman!  " — began  Lidiya. 

"  Quoi,  mon  enfant?  " 

"  Non—rien.  .  .  .  Je  te  dirai  apres" 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  laughed,  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

We  both  maintained  silence  for  a  space,  while 
Lidiya  folded  her  arms  pompously  on  her  breast. 

"  Tell  me,  please,"  —  began  Sofya  Nikolaevna 
again:  — "  I  remember  that  j-ou  had  a  friend 
.  .  .  .  what  in  the  world  was  his  name?  he  had 
such  a  kind  face  ....  he  was  always  reading 
poetry;  a  very  enthusiastic  man.  .  .  ." 

"  Was  n't  it  Pasynkoff  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes;  Pasynkoff  ....  where  is  he 
nowf 

"  He  is  dead." 

"Dead?" — repeated  Sofya  Nikolaevna: — 
"  what  a  pity!  ..." 

"  Have  I  seen  him?  "—asked  the  little  girl  in 
a  hasty  whisper. 

"  No,  Lidiya,  thou  hast  not  seen  him.  What 
a  pity!" — repeated  Sofya  Nikolaevna. 

114 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"You  mourn  for  him  .  ..."  I  began: — 
"  What  would  you  do  if  you  had  known  him  as 
I  knew^  him?  .  .  .  But  permit  me  to  inquire: 
why  did  you  mention  him  in  particular?  " 

"  By  accident ;  I  really  don't  know  why.  .  .  ." 
(Sofya  Xikolaevna  dropped  her  eyes.) — "  Li- 
diya," — she  added:  —  "  go  to  thy  nurse." 

"  Wilt  thou  call  me  when  I  may  come?  "  — 
asked  the  little  girl. 

"  I  will." 

The  little  girl  left  the  room.  Sofya  Xiko- 
laevna turned  to  me. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  everything  you  know  about 
PasynkofF." 

I  began  my  narration.  I  sketched,  in  brief 
words,  the  whole  life  of  mj^  friend;  I  tried,  to 
the  best  of  my  ability,  to  depict  his  soul;  I  de- 
scribed his  last  meeting  with  me,  his  end. 

"  And  so  that  was  the  sort  of  man  he  was!  " — 
I  exclaimed,  as  I  concluded  my  narration:  — "  he 
is  gone  from  us,  unnoticed,  almost  unappreci- 
ated !  And  that  would  be  no  great  harm.  What 
does  popular  appreciation  amount  to?  But  I 
feel  pained,  affronted,  that  such  a  man,  with 
so  loving  and  devoted  a  heart  should  have  died, 
without  having  even  once  experienced  the  bliss 
of  mutual  love,  without  having  awakened  sym- 
])athy  in  a  single  woman's  heart  worthy  of  Iiim! 
.  .  .  What  if  the  rest  of  us  do  not  taste  that 
bliss?     We  are  not  worthy  of  it;  but  Pasynkoff ! 

115 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

.  .  .  And,  moreover,  have  not  I  in  my  day  en- 
countered a  thousand  men  wlio  were  not  to  be 
com})ared  with  him  in  any  way,  and  who  have 
been  beloved?  Are  we  bound  to  assume  that  cer- 
tain defects  in  a  man,  — self-confidence,  for  ex- 
ample, or  frivolousness,  are  indispensable  in 
order  that  a  woman  shall  become  attached  to 
him?  Or  is  love  afraid  of  perfection,  of  such 
perfection  as  is  possible  here  on  earth,  as  of  some- 
thing alien  and  terrible  to  it?  " 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  listened  to  me  to  the  end, 
without  taking  from  me  her  stern  and  piercing 
ej-es,  or  unsealing  her  lips;  only  her  brows 
twitched  from  time  to  time. 

"  Why  do  you  assume," — she  said,  after  a 
brief  pause, — "  that  not  a  single  woman  loved 
your  friend?  " 

"  Because  I  know  it,  I  know  it  for  a  fact." 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  was  on  the  point  of  saying 
something,  but  stopped  short.  She  seemed  to  be 
struggling  with  herself. 

"  You  are  mistaken," — she  said  at  last:  — "  I 
know  a  woman  who  loved  your  dead  friend  fer- 
vently: she  loves  and  remembers  him  to  this  day 
....  and  the  news  of  his  death  will  wound  her 
deeply." 

"  Who  is  the  woman? — permit  me  to  ask." 

"  INIy  sister  Varya." 

"  Varvara  Nikolaevna!  "—I  exclaimed  in 
amazement. 

116 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

"  Yes." 

"  What ?  Varvara  Xikolae^^la ?  "- 1  re- 
peated:—  "that  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  will  complete  your  thought,"— pursued 
Sofya  Xikolaevna:— "  that  cold,  indifferent,  in 
your  opinion,  languid  girl,  loved  your  friend; 
that  is  the  reason  she  has  not  married,  and  will 
not  marry.  Until  to-day,  I  have  been  the  only 
one  to  know  this.  Varya  would  have  died,  rather 
than  betray  her  secret.  In  our  family,  we  know 
how  to  hold  our  peace  and  endure." 

For  a  long  time  I  gazed  intently  at  Sofya  Xi- 
kolaevna, involuntarily  meditating  on  the  bitter 
significance  of  her  last  words. 

"  You  have  astounded  me,"— I  said  at  last.— 
"  But  do  you  know,  Sofya  Xikolaevna,  if  I  were 
not  afraid  of  awakening  in  you  unpleasant 
memories,  I  also,  in  my  turn,  could  astound 
you.  .  .  ." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  — she  returned 
slowly,  and  in  some  confusion. 

"  You  really  do  not  understand  me,"  — said  I, 
rising  hastily:  — "  and  therefore,  permit  me,  in- 
stead of  a  verbal  explanation,  to  send  you  a  cer- 
tain article.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  is  it?  "—she  asked. 

"Be  not  disturbed,  Sofya  Xikolaevna;  the 
fjuestion  docs  not  concern  me." 

I  bowed  and  returned  to  my  room,  got  out  the 
amulet  which  I  had  taken  from  PasynkofF,  and 

117 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

sent  it  to  Sofya  Nikohievna,  with  the  following 
note : 

"  Tliis  amulet,  my  dead  friend  wore  con- 
stantly on  his  breast,  and  died  with  it  there.  In 
it  you  will  find  a  note  of  yours  to  him,  of  utterly 
insignifieant  contents;  you  may  read  it.  He 
wore  it  because  lie  loved  you  passionately,  as  he 
confessed  to  me  only  the  night  before  he  died. 
Now  that  he  is  dead,  why  sliould  not  you  know 
that  his  heart  belonged  to  you?  " 

Elisyei  soon  returned,  and  brought  me  back 
the  amulet. 

"  How  is  this?  "  —  I  asked:—"  Did  she  send  no 
message  to  me? " 

"  Xo,  sir." 

I  said  nothing  for  a  wliile. 

"  Did  she  read  my  note?  " 

"  She  must  have  read  it,  sir;  her  little  girl  car- 
ried it  to  her." 

"  Unapproachable,"  —  I  thought,  recalling 
PasynkofF's  last  words.—"  Well,  go,"— I  said 
aloud. 

Elisyei  smiled  in  a  strange  sort  of  way,  and 
did  not  leave  the  room. 

"  A  certain  young  girl  ....  has  come  to  see 
you,  sir,"— he  began. 

"What  girl?" 

Elisyei  was  silent  for  a  space. 

"  Did  n't  my  late  master  tell  you  anything. 
sirf 

118 


YAKOFF  pasyxkoff 

"  Xo.  .  .  .  What  dost  thou  mean?" 

"  When  he  was  in  Xovgorod,"— went  on  Eli- 
syei,  touching  the  jamb  of  the  door  with  his 
hand,  .  .  .  .  "he  made  acquaintance  with  a 
certain  young  girl,  say,  for  example.  So  it  is 
that  girl  who  wishes  to  see  you,  sir.  I  met  her  on 
the  street  the  other  day.  I  said  to  her:  '  Come; 
if  the  master  commands,  I  will  admit  thee.'  " 

"  Ask  her  in,  ask  her  in,  of  course.  But  .... 
what  sort  of  a  girl  is  she?  " 

"  A  lowly  girl,  sir  ...  .  from  the  petty 
burgher  class  ....  a  Russian." 

"  Did  the  late  YakofF  Ivanitch  love  her? " 

"  He  loved  her  right  enough,  sir.  Well,  she 
....  when  she  heard  that  my  master  was 
dead,  she  was  greatly  afflicted.  She  's  a  good 
girl,  right  enough,  sir." 

"  Ask  her  in,  ask  her  in." 

Elisyei  Tvent  out,  and  immediately  returned. 
Behind  him  came  a  girl  in  a  gaily-coloured  cotton 
gown,  and  with  a  dark  kerchief  on  her  head, 
which  half  covered  her  face.  On  catching  sight 
of  me,  she  was  abashed,  and  turned  away. 

"What  ails  thee?  "—Elisyei  said  to  her:  — 
"  Go  along,  have  no  fear." 

I  stepj)ed  up  to  her,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  —  I  asked  her. 

"  Masha,"  — she  said,  in  a  soft  voice,  casting  a 
covert  glance  at  me. 

Judging  from  her  appearance,  she  was  twenty- 

119 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

two  or  tliree  years  of  age;  she  luid  a  round,  rather 
})hiin  but  agreeable  face,  soft  cheeks,  gentle 
blue  eyes,  and  small,  very  prett}^  clean  hands. 
She  was  neatly  dressed. 

"Did  you  know  Yakoff  Ivanitch?"— I  went 
on. 

"  Yes,  sir," — she  said,  plucking  at  the  ends  of 
her  kerchief,  and  tears  started  out  on  her  eye- 
lashes. 

I  asked  her  to  be  seated. 

She  immediately  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a 
chair,  without  ceremony,  and  without  putting  on 
airs.     Elisyei  left  the  room. 

"  You  made  his  acquaintance  in  Novgorod?  " 

"  Yes,  in  Novgorod,  sir,"  —  she  replied,  tuck- 
ing both  hands  under  her  kerchief.  "  I  only  heard 
of  his  death  day  before  yesterday,  from  Elisyei 
Timofeitch,  sir.  YakofF  Ivanitch,  when  he  went 
away  to  Siberia,  promised  to  write,  and  he  did 
WTite  twice;  but  after  that  he  did  not  write  any 
more,  sir.  I  would  have  followed  him  to  Siberia, 
but  he  did  not  want  me  to,  sir." 

"  Have  you  relatives  in  Novgorod?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  Did  you  live  with  them?  " 

"  I  lived  with  my  mother  and  my  married  sis- 
ter; but  afterward  my  mother  got  angry  with 
me;  and  it  got  crowded  at  my  sister's:  they  had 
a  lot  of  children;  so  I  moved  away.  I  always 
set  my  hopes  on  YakofF  Ivanitch,  and  wanted 

120 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

nothing  except  to  see  him,  for  he  was  always 
affectionate  to  me — ask  Elisyei  Timofeitch  if  he 
was  n  t. 

]Masha  ceased  speaking  for  a  httle  wliile. 

"  I  have  his  letters  with  me," — she  went  on. — 
"  Here,  look  at  them,  sir." 

She  dre^v  from  her  pocket  several  letters  and 
gave  them  to  me:  —  "  Read  them, sir," — she  added. 

I  unfolded  one  letter,  and  recognised  Pasyn- 
kofF's  handwriting. 

"Dear  ]Masha!"  (He  M-rote  a  large,  fine 
hand)  — "  yesterday'  thou  didst  lean  thy  dear  lit- 
tle head  against  my  head,  and  when  I  asked: 
*  why  art  thou  doing  this? '  thou  didst  say  to  me: 
'  I  want  to  listen  to  what  you  are  thinking  ahout.' 
I  will  tell  thee  what  I  was  thinking  ahout:  I  was 
thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  for  Masha  to  learn 
to  read  and  write!  Then  she  could  have  deci- 
phered this  letter.  .  .  ." 

^lasha  glanced  at  the  letter. 

"  He  wrote  me  that  while  he  was  still  in  Nov- 
gorod,"—she  said:  —  "when  he  was  planning 
to  teach  me  to  read  and  write.  Look  at  the 
otiiers,  sir.  There  is  one  from  Siberia,  sir.  Here, 
read  this  one,  sir." 

I  read  the  letters.  They  were  all  very  affec- 
tionate, even  tender.  In  one  of  them,  ])recisely 
in  that  first  letter  from  Siberia,  Pasynkoff  called 
Masha  his  best  friend,  and  promised  to  send  her 
money  to  come  to  Siberia,  and  wound  up  with 

121 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

the  following  words:  "  I  kiss  thy  pretty  little 
hands;  the  young  girls  here  have  no  sucli  hands; 
and  their  heads  are  no  match  for  thine,  neither 
are  their  hearts.  .  .  .  Read  the  little  hooks  which 
I  gave  thee,  and  remember  me,  and  1  shall  not 
forget  thee.  Thou  alone,  alone  hast  loved  me; 
and  so  I  wish  to  belong  to  thee  only.  .  .  ." 

"  I  see  that  he  was  very  much  attached  to  thee," 
—  I  said,  returning  the  letters  to  her. 

"  He  loved  me  very  much," — returned  Masha, 
carefully  stowing  the  letters  away  in  her  pocket, 
and  tears  coursed  slowly  down  her  cheeks. — 
"  I  always  set  my  hopes  on  him;  if  the  Lord 
had  prolonged  his  life,  he  would  not  have  aban- 
doned me.  May  God  grant  him  the  kingdom 
of  heaven!  .  .  .  ." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  with  a  corner  of  her  ker- 
chief. 

"  Where  are  you  living  now?  "  —  I  inquired. 

"  I  am  living  in  Moscow  now;  I  came  with  a 
lady;  but  now  I  am  without  a  place.  I  went  to 
Yakoff  Ivanitch's  aunt,  but  she  is  very  poor  her- 
self. Yakoff  Ivanitch  often  talked  to  me  about 
you,  sir,"  —  she  added,  rising  and  bowing:  — 
"  he  was  always  very  fond  of  you,  and  remem- 
bered you.  I  met  Elisyei  Timofeitch  here  the 
day  before  yesterday,  and  I  thought:  would  n't 
you  be  willing  to  help  me,  as  I  have  no  place  at 
present.  .  .  ." 

122 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  With  great  pleasure,  IMarya  ....  allow 
me  to  inquire  your  patronymic?  " 

"  PetrofF,"— replied  ^lasha,  and  dropped  her 
eyes. 

"  I  will  do  everything  in  my  power  for  you, 
Marya  Petrovna,"  — I  went  on:  — "  I  am  only 
sorry  that  I  am  only  passing  through  the  town, 
and  am  very  little  acquainted  in  nice  houses." 

^Nlasha  sighed. 

"  I  'd  like  to  get  some  sort  of  a  place,  sir.  ...  I 
don't  know  how  to  cut  out,  but  when  it  comes  to 
sewing,  I  can  sew  anything  ....  well,  and  I 
can  take  care  of  children." 

"  I  must  give  her  some  money,"  I  thought: 
"  but  how  am  I  to  do  it?  " 

"  Hearken,  ]Marya  Petrovna,"  —  I  began,  not 
without  confusion:  — "  j^ou  must  excuse  me, 
please,  but  you  know  from  PasynkofF's  words 
on  what  friendly  terms  I  was  with  him.  .  .  .  Will 
you  not  permit  me  to  offer  to  you  ....  for 
present  necessities  ....  a  small  sum?  .  .  ." 

IMasha  darted  a  look  at  me. 

"  What,  sir?  " — she  asked. 

"  Are  you  not  in  need  of  money?  " — I  said. 

]Masha  blushed  all  over  and  bent  her  head. 

"  What  should  I  do  with  money?  " — she  whis- 
pered,   "  Better  get  me  a  place,  sir.  .  .  ." 

"  I  will  try  to  get  you  a  place;  but  I  cannot 
answer  for  that  with  certainty;  and  really,  it  is 

123 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

wrong  for  you  to  feel  ashamed.  .  .  .  For  I  am 
not  a  mere  stranger  to  you.  .  .  Accept  this  from 
me,  in  memoiy  of  your  friend.  .  .  ." 

I  turned  away,  hastily  took  several  bank-notes 
from  my  pocket-book,  and  gave  them  to  her. 

JNIasha  stood  motionless,  her  head  drooping 
still  lower.  .  .  . 

"  Take  it,"  — I  repeated. 

She  softly  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  looked  into 
my  face  with  a  mournful  gaze,  softly  liberated 
her  pale  hand  from  under  her  kerchief,  and 
stretched  it  out  to  me.  I  laid  the  bank-notes 
on  her  cold  fingers.  She  silently  hid  her  hand 
again  under  her  kerchief,  and  dropped  her 
eyes. 

"And  in  future,  Marya  Petrovna,"  — I  went 
on,  — "  if  you  are  in  want  of  anything,  please 
appeal  directly  to  me.  —  I  will  give  you  my  ad- 
dress." 

"  I  thank  you  humbly,  sir,"  —  she  said;  and 
after  a  brief  pause,  she  added:  "  Did  n't  he  speak 
to  you  about  me,  sir?  " 

"  I  met  him  the  day  before  he  died,  Marya 
Petrovna.  However,  I  do  not  recollect.  ...  I 
think  he  did  speak  of  you." 

JNIasha  passed  her  hand  over  her  hair,  propped 
her  cheek  lightly  on  it,  meditated,  and  after  say- 
ing: "  Farewell,  sir,"  she  left  the  room. 

I  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  began  to  think 
bitter  thoughts.     This  JNIasha,  her  relations  to 

124 


YAKOFF  PASYXKOFF 

Pasj'nkoff,  his  letters,  the  secret  love  of  Sofya 
Xikolaevna's  sister  for  him.  .  .  .  "Poor  fellow! 
Poor  fellow!  "  —  I  whispered,  sighing  heavily. 
I  recalled  the  whole  of  PasynkofF's  life,  his 
childhood,  his  youth,  Friiulein  Frederika.  .  .  . 
"There  now,"  —  I  thought:  "Fate  did  not  give 
thee  much!  she  did  not  gladden  thee  with  a  great 
deal!" 

On  the  following  daj^  I  called  again  on  Sofya 
Nikolaevna.  I  was  made  to  wait  in  the  ante- 
room, and  when  I  entered,  Lidiya  was  already 
sitting  beside  her  mother.  I  understood  that 
Sofya  Nikolaevna  did  not  wish  to  renew  the  con- 
versation of  the  preceding  day. 

We  began  to  chat  — really,  I  do  not  remember 
about  what,  —  rumours  of  the  town,  business 
matters.  .  .  .  Lidiya  frequently  put  in  her  little 
word,  and  gazed  slily  at  me.  An  amusing  im- 
portance had  suddenly  made  its  appearance  on 
her  mobile  little  face.  .  .  .  The  clever  little  s'vl 
must  have  divined  that  her  mother  had  placed  her 
by  her  side  of  deliberate  purpose. 

I  rose,  and  began  to  take  my  leave.  Sofya 
Nikolaevna  escorted  me  to  the  door.  "  I  made 
you  no  reply  yesterday,"  — she  said,  halting  at 
tlie  threshold:  — "  and  what  reply  was  there  to 
make?  Our  life  does  not  depend  on  ourselves; 
but  we  all  have  one  anchor,  from  which  we  need 
never  break  away,  uidess  we  so  wish  it  ourselves: 
the  sense  of  duty." 

125 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

I  silently  bent  my  head  in  token  of  assent,  and 
bade  farewell  to  the  young  Puritan. 

All  that  evening  I  remained  at  home;  but  I 
did  not  think  of  her;  I  kept  thinking,  thinking 
incessantly  of  my  dear,  my  never-to-be-forgotten 
PasynkofF — of  that  last  of  the  romanticists;  and 
feelings  now  sad,  now  tender,  surged  up  sweetly 
in  mj"  breast,  and  resounded  on  the  strings  of  my 
heart,  which  was  not  yet  grown  utterly  old.  .  .  . 
Peace  to  thj^  ashes,  thou  unpractical  man,  thou 
kind-hearted  idealist!  And  may  God  grant  to 
all  practical  gentlemen,  to  whom  thou  were  ever 
an  alien,  and  who,  perchance,  will  still  ridicule 
thy  shadow,  —  may  God  grant  them  to  taste  at 
least  the  hundredth  part  of  those  pure  delights, 
wherewith,  in  spite  of  Fate  and  men,  thy  poor 
and  submissive  life  was  adorned ! 


126 


"FAUST" 

(1855) 


"FAUST" 

A  STORY  IN  NINE  LETTERS 

Enthehren  sollst  du,  sollst  enthehren. 

"Faust."     (Parti.) 

FIRST  LETTER 

From  Pavel  Alexdndrovitch  B***  to  Semyon 
Nikoldcvitch  F***. 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  June  6,  1850. 

{ARRIVED  here  three  days  ago,  my  dear 
friend,  and,  in  accordance  with  my  promise, 
I  take  up  my  pen  to  write  to  thee.  A  fine  rain 
has  heen  drizzhng  down  ever  since  morning;  it 
is  impossible  to  go  out;  and  besides,  I  want  to 
have  a  chat  with  thee.  Here  I  am  again,  in  my 
old  nest,  in  which  I  have  not  been — dreadful  to 
say  —  for  nine  whole  years.  Reall}',  when  one 
comes  to  think  of  it,  I  luive  become  altogether 
another  man.  Yes,  actually,  another  man.  Dost 
thou  remember  in  the  drawing-room  the  small, 
(lark  niiinn-  of  my  great-grandmother,  with 
those  (jucei"  scrolls  at  the  corners?  Thou  wcrt 
always  meditating  on  what  it  had  beheld  a  hun- 
dred years  ago.     As  soon  as  I  arrived,  I  went 

129 


"  I  AUST  " 

to  it,  iiiid  was  involuntarily  disconcerted.  I  sud- 
denly perceived  how  I  had  aged  and  changed 
of  late.  However,  I  am  not  the  only  one  who  has 
grown  old.  ISly  tiny  house,  wliich  was  in  a  state 
of  decrepitude  long  since,  hardly  holds  itself  up- 
right now,  and  has  sagged  down,  and  sunk  into 
the  ground.  oNIy  good  Vasilievna,  the  house- 
keeper (thou  hast  not  forgotten  her,  I  am  sure: 
she  used  to  regale  thee  with  such  splendid  pre- 
serves), has  quite  dried  up  and  bent  together. 
At  sight  of  me,  she  could  not  cry  out,  and  she 
did  not  fall  to  weeping,  but  merely  grunted  and 
coughed,  sat  down  exhausted  on  a  chair,  and 
waved  her  hand  in  despair.  Old  Terenty  is  still 
alert,  holds  himself  erect  as  of  old,  and  as  he 
walks  turns  out  his  feet  clad  in  the  same  yellow 
nankeen  trousei*s,  and  shod  with  the  same  squeak- 
ing goat's-leather  shoes,  with  high  instep  and 
knots  of  ribbon,  which  evoked  your  emotions 
more  than  once.  .  .  .  But  great  heavens! — how 
loose  those  trousers  now  hang  on  his  thin  legs! 
how  white  his  hair  has  grown !  And  his  face  has 
all  shrivelled  up  to  the  size  of  your  fist;  and  when 
he  talked  with  me,  when  he  began  to  make  ar- 
rangements and  issue  orders  in  the  adjoining 
room,  I  found  him  ridiculous,  and  yet  1  was 
sorry  for  him.  All  his  teeth  are  gone,  and  he 
mumbles  with  a  whistling  and  hissing  sound. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  park  has  grown  won- 
derfully beautiful:  the  little  modest  bushes  of 

130 


"  FAUST  " 

lilac,  acacia,  and  honeysuckle  (you  and  I  set  them 
out,  dost  remember?)  have  grown  up  into  mag- 
nificent, dense  thickets;  the  birches  and  maples, 
have  all  spread  upward  and  outward;  the  lin- 
den alleys  in  particular,  have  become  very  fine. 
I  love  those  alleys,  I  love  their  tender  grey- 
green  hue,  and  the  delicate  fragrance  of  the  air 
beneath  their  arches;  I  love  the  mottled  network 
of  circles  of  light  on  the  dark  earth — I  have  no 
sand,  as  thou  knowest.  jNIy  favourite  oak-sap- 
ling has  alreadv  become  a  voung  oak-tree.  Yes- 
terday,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  I  sat  for  more 
than  an  hour  in  its  shade,  on  a  bench.  I  felt 
greatly  at  my  ease.  Round  about  the  grass 
gleamed  so  merrily  green;  over  all  lay  a  golden 
light,  strong  and  soft;  it  even  penetrated  into 
the  shade  ....  and  how  many  birds  I  heard! 
Thou  hast  not  forgotten,  I  trust,  that  birds  are 
my  passion!  The  turtle-doves  cooed  incessantly, 
now  and  then  an  oriole  whistled,  a  chaffinch  exe- 
cuted its  cliarming  song,  thrushes  waxed  angry 
and  chattered,  a  cuckoo  answered  from  afar; 
suddenly,  like  a  madman,  a  woodpecker  uttered 
a  piercing  scream.  I  listened,  listened  to  all  this 
soft,  commingled  din,  and  did  not  want  to  move, 
and  in  my  heart  was  something  wliich  was  not 
indolence,  nor  yet  emotion. 

And  the  park  is  not  the  only  thing  that  has 
grown  up;  sturdy,  robust  lads,  in  whom  I  should 
never  have  recognised  the  little  urchins  whom  I 

131 


"  FAUST  " 

used  to  know,  are  constantly  cominfr  under  my 
eye.  And  thy  favourite,  Timosha,  has  now  be- 
come such  a  Timofyei  as  thou  canst  not  ])icture 
to  thyself.  Thou  hadst  fears  for  his  health  then, 
and  predicted  consumption  for  him;  but  thou 
shouldst  take  a  look  now  at  his  huge,  red  hands, 
and  the  way  they  stick  out  from  the  tight  sleeves 
of  his  nankeen  coat,  and  what  round,  thick  mus- 
cles stand  out  all  over  him!  The  nape  of  his  neck 
is  like  that  of  a  bull,  and  his  head  is  all  covered 
with  round,  blond  curls,— a  regular  Farnese 
Hercules!  His  face  has  undergone  less  change, 
however,  than  the  faces  of  the  others  have;  it 
has  not  even  increased  greatly  in  size,  and  his 
cheery,  "  gaping  "  smile,  as  thou  wert  wont  to 
express  it,  has  remained  the  same  as  of  yore.  I 
have  taken  him  for  my  valet;  I  discarded  my 
Petersburg  valet  in  Moscow:  he  was  altogether 
too  fond  of  putting  me  to  shame,  and  making  me 
feel  his  superiority  in  the  usages  of  the  capital. 

I  have  not  found  a  single  one  of  my  dogs ;  they 
are  all  dead.  Xefta  alone  outlived  the  rest— and 
even  she  did  not  survive  till  my  arrival,  as  Argos 
waited  for  Ulysses;  she  was  not  fated  to  behold 
her  former  master  and  comrade  of  the  hunt  wdth 
her  dimmed  eyes.  But  Shavka  is  still  sound, 
and  still  barks  hoarsely,  and  one  ear  is  torn,  as 
usual,  and  there  are  burrs  in  his  tail,  as  is  fitting. 

I  have  established  myself  in  thy  former  cham- 
ber.    The  sun  strikes  on  it,  it  is  true,  and  there 

132 


"  FAUST  " 

are  a  great  many  flies  in  it;  but,  on  the  otlic:- 
hand,  it  has  less  of  the  odour  of  an  old  house  about 
it  than  the  other  rooms.  'T  is  strange!  that 
mustv,  somewhat  sour  and  'vWthered  odour  acts 
powerfully  on  vay  imagination.  I  will  not  say 
that  it  is  disagreeable  to  me— on  the  contrary; 
but  it  evokes  in  me  sadness,  and,  eventually, 
dejection.  Like  thyself,  I  am  very  fond  of  the 
pot-bellied  chests  of  drawers  with  their  brass 
fastenings,  the  white  arm-chairs  with  oval  backs 
and  curved  legs,  the  glass  chandeliers  covered 
with  fly-specks,  with  the  huge  ^^^  of  purple 
tinsel  in  the  middle,— in  a  word,  all  sorts  of  fur- 
niture belonging  to  our  grandfathers;  but  I  can- 
not look  at  all  this  constantly :  a  sort  of  perturbed 
tedium  (precisely  that!)  takes  possession  of  me. 
In  the  room  where  I  have  settled  myself,  the  fur- 
niture is  of  the  most  ordinary  description,  home- 
made ;  but  I  have  left  in  one  corner  a  tall,  narrow 
cupboard  with  shelves,  on  which,  athwart  the 
dust  are  barely  visible  divers  old-fashioned,  pot- 
bellied vessels,  of  blue  and  green  glass.  And  I 
have  given  orders  that  there  shall  be  hung  on  the 
wall,  — thou  wilt  recall  it,— that  portrait  of  a 
woman,  in  tlie  black  frame,  which  thou  wert  wont 
to  call  tlie  ])C)rtrait  of  ]\Ianon  Lescaut.  It  has 
grown  a  little  darker  in  these  nine  years ;  but  the 
eyes  look  forth  as  pensively,  slily,  and  tenderly 
as  ever,  and  tlie  lips  smile  in  the  same  frivolous 
and    mournful   way    as    of   (jld,    and    the   half- 

133 


"  FAUST  " 

stripped  rose  dangles  as  softly  as  ever  from 
the  slender  fingers.  The  window-shades  in  my 
room  amuse  me  greatly.  Once  upon  a  time  they 
used  to  be  green,  but  have  grown  yellow  in  the 
sunlight.  Upon  them,  in  black,  are  painted 
scenes  from  d'Arlincourt's  "Hermit."  On  one 
shade,  this  hermit,  with  the  biggest  sort  of  a 
beard,  staringly-prominent  eyes,  and  in  sandals, 
is  dragging  off  to  the  mountains  some  dis- 
hevelled young  lady  or  other;  on  the  other  shade, 
a  fierce  combat  is  in  progress  between  four 
knights  in  skull-caps,  and  with  puffs  on  their 
shoulders;  one  is  lying,  en  raccourci,  slain — in 
short,  all  the  horrors  are  depicted,  and  all  around 
reigns  such  undisturbed  tranquillity,  and  such 
gentle  reflections  are  cast  on  tlie  ceiling  from 
the  shades  themselves.  ...  A  sort  of  spiritual 
quietude  has  descended  upon  me  since  I  have 
established  myself  here.  I  do  not  want  to  do 
anything ;  I  do  not  want  to  see  any  one,  to  medi- 
tate about  anything.  I  am  too  indolent  to  specu- 
late; but  not  too  indolent  to  think;  but  thinking 
is  not  indolence;  they  are  two  separate  things, 
as  thou  art  well  aware. 

At  first  the  memories  of  my  childhood  in- 
vaded me.  .  .  .  Wheresoever  I  went,  whatso- 
ever I  looked  at,  they  surged  up  from  every  di- 
rection, clear,  clear  to  the  most  minute  details, 
and  motionless,  as  it  were,  in  their  distinct  defi- 

niteness Then  those  memories  were  suc- 

134 


"  FAUST  " 

ceeded  bv  others;  then  .  .  .  then  I  softly  turned 
away  from  the  past,  and  there  remained  nothing 
in  my  breast  save  a  sort  of  dreamy  burden.  Just 
imagine !  As  I  sat  on  the  dam,  under  the  willovv-, 
I  suddenly  fell  to  weeping,  quite  unexj^ectedly ; 
and  would  haye  wept  for  a  long  time,  in  spite 
of  my  advanced  age,  had  I  not  been  mortified 
by  a  passing  peasant-wife,  who  stared  at  me 
with  curiosity,  then,  without  turning  her  head 
toward  me,  made  a  straight,  low  obeisance,  and 
walked  past.  I  should  have  liked  greatly  to  re- 
main in  that  frame  of  mind  ( I  shall  not  weep  any 
more,  of  course)  initil  mj"  departure  hence,  that 
is  to  say,  until  the  month  of  September;  and  I 
shall  be  very  much  chagrined,  if  an}^  one  of  the 
neighbours  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  call  on 
me.  However,  apparently,  there  is  nothing  to 
fear  in  that  quarter;  for  I  have  no  near  neigh- 
bours. Thou  wilt  understand  me,  I  am  convinced ; 
thou  knowest,  from  thine  own  experience,  how 
beneficial  solitude  often  is.  ...  I  need  it  now, 
after  all  sorts  of  wanderings. 

But  I  sliall  not  be  bored.  I  have  brouo-ht  with 
me  several  books,  and  I  have  a  very  fair  library 
here.  Yesterday  I  opened  the  cases,  and  rum- 
maged for  a  ]f)iig  time  among  the  musty  books. 
I  found  many  curious  things,  whicli  1  had  not 
noticed  before:  "  Candide,"  in  a  manuscript 
translation  of  the  '70s;  newspaj)ers  and  journals 
of  the  same  period;  "The  Triumphant  Chame- 

13; 


"  FAUST  " 

leon  "  (that  is  to  say,  Mirabeau)  ;  "  Le  Paysan 
Perverti,"  and  so  forth.  1  came  upon  some  chil- 
dren's books,  my  own,  and  those  of  my  father, 
and  my  grandmother,  and,  even — just  fancy! — 
of  my  great-grandmother.  On  one  very,  very 
ancient  Frencli  grammar,  in  a  gay  binding,  was 
written  in  large  letters :  "  Ce  livre  appartient  a 
M-lle  Eudoxie  de  Lavrine"  and  the  year  was 
added  — 1741.  I  saw  books  which  I  had  brought 
from  abroad  some  time  or  other;  among  others, 
Goethe's  "  Faust."  Perhaps  thou  art  not  aware 
that  there  was  a  time  when  I  knew  "  Faust  "  by 
heart  (the  first  part,  of  course),  word  for  word; 
I  could  not  read  it  enough  to  satisfj'-  myself.  .  .  . 
But,  other  times,  other  dreams,  and  in  the  course 
of  the  last  nine  years  I  don't  believe  I  have  taken 
Goethe  in  my  hand  a  single  time.  With  what 
an  inexpressible  feeling  did  I  behold  the  little 
book,  but  too  familiar  to  me  (a  bad  edition  of 
1828).  I  carried  it  off  with  me,  lay  down  on 
my  bed,  and  began  to  read.  What  an  eiFect  the 
whole  magnificent  first  scene  had  upon  me!  The 
appearance  of  the  Spirit  of  Earth,  his  words; 
thou  rememberest;r  '  On  the  billows  of  life,  in 
the  whirlwind  of  action,"  aroused  within  me  the 
trepidation  and  chill  of  rapture  which  I  have  not 
experienced  for  many  a  day.  I  recalled  every- 
thing: Berlin,  and  my  student  days,  and  Frau- 
lein  Klara  Schtik,  and  Zeidelmann,  in  the  part 
of   jNIephistopheles,   and   everything   and  every 


"  FAUST  " 

one.  .  .  .  For  a  long  time  I  could  not  get  to 
sleep;  my  youth  came  and  stood  before  me,  like 
a  ghost;  like  a  fire,  hke  a  poison,  it  coursed 
through  my  veins;  my  heart  expanded  and  re- 
fused to  contract;  something  swept  across  its 
strings,  and  desires  began  to  seethe. 
■^'  ISuch  were  the  r'everies  to\vhich  thj'-  friend, 
aged  almost  forty,  surrendered  himself  as  he  sat 
solitary,  in  his  isolated  little  house!  What  if  some 
one  had  seen  me  ?  Well,  what  if  they  had  ?  I  should 
not  have  been  in  the  least  ashamed.  To  feel 
ashamed  is  also  a  sign  of  youth ;  but  I  have  begun 
to  notice  that  I  am  growing  old,  and  knowest  thou 
why  ?  This  is  the  reason.  I  now  trj-  to  magnify 
to  myself  my  cheerful  sensations,  and  to  belittle 
the  mournful  ones,  while  in  the  days  of  youth 
I  proceeded  on  the  diametrically  opposite  plan. 
One  goes  about  then  hoarding  his  sorrow  as 
though  it  were  a  treasure,  and  is  ashamed  of  a 
cheerful  imi)ulse.  .  .  . 

And  nevertheless,  it  seems  to  me  that,  notwith- 
standing all  my  experience  of  life,  there  is  still 
something  more  in  the  world,  friend  Horatio, 
tliat  I  liave  not  experienced,  and  that  that  "some- 
thing "  is  about  the  most  imi)ortant  of  all. 

Ekh,  how  I  have  run  on!  Farewell!  until  an- 
other time.  What  art  thou  doing  in  Petersburg? 
liy  the  way:  Savely,  my  rustic  cook,  asks  to  be 
remembered  to  thee.  He  also  has  grown  old, 
but  not  too  much  so,  has  waxed  fat  and  some- 

137 


"  FAUST  " 

\\hat  pot-bellied.  He  makes  just  as  well  as  of 
old,  chieken  soup  with  boiled  onions,  curd-eakes 
with  fancy  edges,  and  pigus}  the  famous  dish  of 
the  steppes,  which  made  thy  tongue  turn  white, 
gaAe  thee  indigestion,  and  stood  like  a  stake 
ih rough  thee  for  four-and-twenty  hours.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  dries  up  the  roasts,  as  of  old,  to 
such  a  point,  that  you  might  bang  them  against 
the  plate — they  are  regular  cardboard.  But  fare- 
well! 

Thine, 

P.  B. 

SECOND  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  June  12,  1850. 

I  HAVE  a  rather  important  bit  of  news  to  com- 
municate to  thee,  my  dear  friend.  —  Listen!  Yes- 
terday, before  dinner,  I  took  a  fancy  for  a  stroll, 
— only  not  in  the  park;  I  walked  along  the  road 
leading  to  town.  It  is  very  pleasant  to  walk  on 
a  long,  straight  road,  without  any  object,  and 
with  long  strides.  One  seems  to  be  engaged  in 
business,  hastening  somewhere  or  other.  —  I  look: 
a  calash  is  driving  to  meet  me.  "  Is  n't  it  coming 
to  my  house?  "  I  thought  with  secret  alarm.  .  .  . 
But,  no;  in  the  calash  sits  a  gentleman  with  a 
moustache,   a   stranger   to   me.      I    recover   my 

^  A  sour  soup,  with  cucumbers. —Translator. 

138 


" FAUST 


»> 


equanimity.  But  suddenly  this  gentleman,  on 
coming  alongside  of  me,  orders  his  coachman  to 
stop  the  horses,  courteously  lifts  his  cap,  and 
with  still  geater  courtesy  asks  me:  "  Am  not  I 
so-and-so?"  calhng  me  by  name.  I,  in  turn, 
come  to  a  halt,  and  with  the  animation  of  a  crim- 
inal being  conducted  to  his  trial,  reply:  "  I  am 
so-and-so,"  and  stare  the  while,  like  a  sheep,  at 
the  gentleman  with  the  moustache,  thinking  to 
mvself :  "  ^Vhv,  I  certainly  have  seen  him  some- 

*  *  * 

where  or  other!  " 

"  You  do  not  recognise  me?  "—he  enunciates, 
alighting  in  the  meantime,  from  the  calash. 
"  I  do  not  in  the  least,  sir." 
"  But  I  recognised  you  instanth\" 
One  word  follows  another;  it  turns  out  that 
he  is  PriimkofF,  — dost  thou  remember?    Our  old 
comrade  in  tlie  university.     "  What  important 
bit  of  news  is  this?"  thou  art  thinking  at  this 
moment,  my  dear  Semyon  Xikolaitch.— "  Priim- 
kofF, so  far  as  I  recollect,  was  a  rather  frivolous 
fellow,  although  neither  malicious  nor  stupid." 
—  All  that  is  so,  my  dear  friend;  but  listen  to  the 
continuation  of  my  tale. 

"  I  was  greatly  deliglited,"  says  he,  "  when 
I  heard  that  you  had  come  to  your  village, 
to  om-  neighbourhood.  But  I  was  not  the  only 
one  who  rejoiced." 

"Allow  me  to  inquire,"  — I  inquired:  — "  who 
else  was  so  amiable.  .  .  .*' 

139 


"  FAUST  " 

"  My  wife." 

"Your  wife?" 

"  Yes,  my  wife;  she  is  an  old  acquaintance  of 
yours." 

"  Permit  me  to  inquire  your  wife's  name?  " 

"  Her  name  is  Vyera  Nikolaevna;  she  was 
born  EltzofF "* 

"Vyera  Nikolaevna!" — I  exclaimed  involun- 
tarily. .  .  . 

So  this  is  that  same  important  piece  of  news, 
of  which  I  spoke  to  thee  at  the  beginning  of  my 
letter. 

But  perhaps  thou  wilt  not  discern  anything 
important  about  it.  ...  I  must  narrate  to  thee 
somewhat  of  my  past  ....  of  my  long-past 
life. 

When  we,  thou  and  I,  came  out  of  the  uni- 
versitj',  I  was  twenty-two  years  of  age.  Thou 
didst  enter  the  government  service;  I,  as  thou 
art  aware,  decided  to  betake  myself  to  Berlin. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  do  in  Berlin  before  Oc- 
tober. I  wanted  to  spend  the  summer  in  Russia, 
in  the  country,  to  have  my  fill  of  lounging  for  the 
last  time;  and  then  to  set  to  work  in  sober  ear- 
nest. As  to  how  far  this  last  project  was  exe- 
cuted, I  will  not  dilate  at  present.  ..."  But 
where  shall  I  spend  the  summer?  "  I  asked  my- 
self. I  did  not  wish  to  go  to  my  own  country- 
place:  my  father  had  recently  died,  I  had  nc- 
near  relatives,  I  dreaded  solitude,  tedium.  .  .  . 

140 


'  FAUST  " 

And  therefore,  I  jo\'fully  accepted  the  sugges- 
tion of  one  of  my  relatives,  my  great-uncle,  that 
I  should  visit  him  on  his  estate,  in  the  T***  Gov- 
ernment. He  was  a  wealthy  man,  kind-hearted 
and  simple,  lived  in  fine  style,  and  had  a  manor 
worth}'  of  a  nobleman.  I  established  myself  in 
his  house.  ]My  uncle  had  a  large  family:  two 
sons  and  five  daughters.  In  addition  to  these, 
there  dwelt  in  his  house  a  throng  of  people. 
Guests  were  incessantly  arriving,  — and,  never- 
theless, things  were  not  cheerful.  The  days 
flowed  by  noisily ;  there  was  no  possibility  of  iso- 
lating one's  self.  Everything  was  done  in  com- 
pany; everybody  tried  to  divert  themselves  in 
some  way,  to  devise  something,  and  b}-  the  end 
of  the  dav  evervbodv  was  frightfullv  tired. 
This  life  had  a  commonplace  savour.  I  had  al- 
ready begun  to  meditate  departure,  and  was  only 
waiting  until  my  uncle's  Name-day  should  ar- 
rive; but  on  that  very  day — the  Xame-day— I 
saw  Vyera  Xikolaevna  Kltzoff  at  the  ball,  —  and 
remained. 

She  was  then  sixteen.  She  lived  with  her 
mother  on  a  tiny  estate,  about  five  versts  from 
my  uncle's.  Her  father— a  remarkul)le  man,  they 
say — had  speedily  attained  to  the  rank  of  col- 
onel, and  would  have  risen  still  higlier,  but  per- 
ished wliile  yet  a  young  man,  accidentally  shot 
in  liiintirjfr  by  a  conn'ade.  Vvera  Nikolaevna 
M'as  a  child   when   he  died.      Her  mother,   also, 

141 


"  FAUST  " 

was  a  remarkable  woman:  she  spoke  several  lan- 
p^iiages,  she  knew  a  great  deal.  She  was  seven 
or  eight  years  older  than  her  husband,  whom 
she  had  married  for  love;  he  had  secretly  car- 
ried her  off  from  her  father's  house.  She  barely 
survived  his  loss,  and  until  her  own  death  (ac- 
cording to  PriimkofF's  statement,  she  died  soon 
after  her  daughter's  marriage)  she  wore  black 
garments  only.  I  vividly  recall  her  face:  ex- 
\  pressive,  dark,  with  thick  hair  sprinkled  with 
1  grey,  large  stern  eyes  which  seemed  extin- 
1  guished,  and  a  straight,  delicate  nose.  Her  fa- 
ther— his  surname  was  Ladanoff — had  lived  for 
fifteen  years  in  Italy.  Vyera  Nikolaevna's  mo- 
ther had  ben  born  the  daughter  of  a  plain  peas- 
ant-woman of  Albano,  who  had  been  killed  on 
the  day  after  the  birth  of  her  child,  by  a  man  of 
Transtevere,  her  betrothed,  from  whom  Lada- 
I  nofF  had  stolen  her.  .  .  .  This  story  had  made 
a  great  noise  in  its  day.  On  his  return  to  Russia, 
LadanofF  not  only  did  not  step  out  of  his  house, 
but  even  out  of  his  stud}^  busied  himself  with 
chemistry,  anatomy,  the  cabalistic  art;  tried  to 
lengthen  the  life  of  mankind,  and  imagined  that 
he  could  enter  into  relations  with  spirits,  and 
call  up  the  dead.  .  .  .  The  neighbours  looked 
on  him  as  a  wizard.  He  was  extremely  fond  of 
his  daughter,  taught  her  everything  himself;  but 
did  not  forgive  her  for  her  elopement  with  Ell- 
tzoff ,  would  not  admit  her  to  his  presence,  either 

142 


"  FAUST  " 

her  or  her  husband,  foretold  a  sorrowful  life  for 
both  of  them,  and  died  alone.  On  being  left 
a  widow,  ]Madame  Eltzoff  consecrated  her  lei- 
sure to  the  education  of  her  daughter,  and  re- 
ceived almost  no  one.  When  I  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Vyera  Xikolaevna, — just  imagine 
it! — she  had  never  been  in  a  large  town  in  her 
life,  not  even  in  her  county  town. 

Vyera  Xikolaevna  did  not  resemble  the  ordi- 
nary young  Russian  gentlewoman;  a  sort  of 
special  stamp  lay  upon  her.  What  instantly  im- 
pressed me  in  her  was  the  wonderful  repose  of 
all  her  movements  and  remarks.  Apparently, 
she  did  not  worry  about  anything,  did  not  get 
excited,  answered  simply  and  sensibly,  and  lis- 
tened attentively.  The  expression  of  her  face 
was  sincere  and  upright,  as  that  of  a  child,  but 
somewhat  cold  and  monotonous,  although  not 
pensive.  She  was  rarely  merry,  and  then  not 
like  other  people:  the  clarity  of  an  innocent  soul, 
more  delightful  than  merriment,  glowed  in  all  | 
\her  being.  She  was  short  of  stature,  very  well 
made,  rather  thin;  she  had  regular  and  tender 
features,  a  very  handsome,  smooth  brow,  golden- 
chestnut  hair,  a  straight  nose,  like  her  mother, 
and  quite  full  lips;  licr  grey  eyes,  with  a  tinge  of 
black,  looked  out  somewhat  too  directly  from  be- 
neath her  thick,  upward-curling  lashes.  Tier 
hands  were  small,  but  not  very  pretty;  people  who 
])Ossess  talent  do  not  have  such  hands  ....  and, 

143 


FAUST 


as  a  matter  of  fact,  Vyera  Nikolaevna  had  no 
particular  talents.  Her  voice  was  as  ringing  ay 
that  of  a  seven-year-old  girl.  At  my  uncle's  ball 
I  was  introduced  to  her  mother,  and,  a  few  days 
later,  I  drove  to  see  them  for  the  first  time. 

iNIadame  KltzofF  was  a  very  strange  woman, 
with  a  great  deal  of  character,  persistent  and 
concentrated.  She  exerted  a  strong  influence  on 
me:  I  both  respected  and  feared  her.  With  her 
everything  was  done  on  a  system;  and  she  had 
reared  her  daughter  on  a  system,  but  did  not  re- 
strain her  of  her  liberty.  Her  daughter  loved 
her  and  beheved  in  her  blindly.  It  sufficed  for 
jNIadame  EltzofF  to  give  her  a  book,  and  to  saj'': 
"  Here,  don't  read  this  page,"  —  and  she  would, 
probably,  skip  the  preceding  page,  but  would 
not  even  glance  at  the  forbidden  one.  But 
JNIadame  Kltzoff  had  also  her  idces  fixes,  her 
hobbies.  For  example,  she  feajpd  pvf^^^ythjng 
which  might  act  on  the  imagination,  as  she  did 
fire ;  ancl  therefore  her  daughter,  up  to  the^^age 
"oT  seventeen,"  had  noT 


in  geograph}^  history,  and  even  natural  history, 
"sHelEIFequentlylio^jlusse^^      a  university  graH^ 

low  in  his~class_ 
I  once 


eitlieiX^as  thoTr\viTt7jjerhaps,  remember, 
undertook  to  argue  with  INIadame  Eltzoff  about 
her  hobby,  although  it  was  difficult  to  draw  her 
into  conversation:  she  was  extremely  taciturn. 
She  merely  shook  her  head. 

144 


"  FAUST  " 

"  You  say,"— she  remarked  at  last, — "  that  it| 
is  both  useful  and  agreeable  to  read  poetical  pro- 
ductions. ...  I  think  that  one  should,  as  early 
as  possible,  make  a  choice  in  life  either  of  the  use- 
ful or  of  the  agreeable,  and  so  make  up  one's 
mind  once  for  all.  I,  also,  once  upon  a  time, 
tried  to  combine  the  two  things.  ...  It  is  im- 
possible and  leads  to  destruction  or  to  insipidity/^ 

Yes,  a  wonderful  being  was  that  woman,  an 
honourable,  proud  being,  not  devoid  of  fanati- 
cism and  superstition  of  a  certain  sort.  "  I  fear 
life,"— she  said  to  me  one  day.  —  And,  in  fact, 
she  did  fear  it,  —  she  feared  those  secret  forces 
upon  which  life  is  erected,  and  which  rarely  but 
suddenly  make  their  way  to  the  surface.  Woe 
to  the  person  over  whose  head  they  break!  These 
forces  had  made  themselves  felt  by  jNIadame 
l^ltzoff  ii\  a  terrible  manner:  remember  the  death 
of  her  mother,  her  husband,  her  father.  ...  It 
was  enough  to  terrify  any  one.  I  never  saw  her 
smile.  She  seemed  to  have  locked  herself  up, 
and  flurii^  the  key  into  the  water.  She  must  have 
gone  tlirough  a  great  deal  of  sorrow  in  her  day, 
and  she  never  shared  it  with  any  one  whomso- 
ever. She  had  trained  herself  not  to  give  way 
to  her  fcehngs  to  such  a  degree,  that  she  was 
even  asliamed  to  display  her  ])assionate  love  for 
her  daughter;  she  never  once  kissed  lier  in  mv 
presence,  never  called  her  by  a  ])et  name,  but 
always   "  Vyera."      I   remember  one   remark  of 

1  i.'j 


"  FAUST  " 

liers.  I  happened  to  say  to  her  that  all  we  peo- 
j)le  of  the  present  day  were  half-hroken.  .  .  . 
"  There  's  no  use  in  hreaking  one's  self  so,"  —  she 
said:  —  "one  must  subdue  one's  self  thoroughly, 
—  or  not  touch  one's  self.  .  .  ." 

Very  few  persons  called  at  INIadame  fil- 
tzoff's;  but  I  visited  her  frequently.  I  was  se- 
cretly conscious  that  she  felt  kindly  toward  me; 
and  I  liked  Vyera  Nikolaevna  very  much.  She 
and  I  chatted  and  strolled  together.  .  .  .  Her 
mother  did  not  interfere  with  us;  the  daughter 
herself  did  not  like  to  be  apart  from  her  mother, 
and  I,  on  my  side,  did  not  feel  any  need  of  soli- 
tary conversations.  .  .  .  Vyera  Nikolaevna  had 
a  strange  habit  of  thinking  aloud;  at  night  she 
talked  loudly  and  intelligibly  in  her  sleep  of  what 
had  impressed  her  during  the  day.  —  One  day, 
after  scanning  me  attentively,  and,  according 
to  her  wont,  softly  propping  her  chin  on  her 
hand,  she  said:  "  It  strikes  me  that  B***  is  a 
good  man;  but  one  cannot  rely  on  him."  Our 
relations  were  of  the  most  friendly  and  even 
character;  only  one  day  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
noticed  far  awa}^  somewhere  in  the  depths  of 
her  bright  eyes,  a  strange  something,  a  sort  of 
softness  and  tenderness.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  I  was 
mistaken. 

In  the  meanwhile,  time  passed  on,  and  the  day 
came  when  I  was  obliged  to  make  preparations 
for  departure.     But  still  I  tarried.     As  I  recall 

146 


" FAUST " 

it,  I  persisted  in  thinking  that  I  should  not  soon 
see  again  that  charming  girl,  to  whom  I  had 
grown  so  attached— and  I  should  feel  uncom- 
fortable. .  .  .  Berlin  began  to  lose  its  power  of 
attraction.  I  did  not  dare  to  admit  to  myself 
what  had  taken  place  in  me,— and  I  did  not  un- 
derstand what  it  was  that  had  taken  place  in 
me,  — it  was  as  though  a  mist  were  roving  about 
in  my  soul.  At  last,  one  morning,  everything 
suddenly  became  clear  to  me.  "  What  's  the  use 
of  seeking  further?  "  —  I  thought.  "Why 
should  I  strive  onward?  For  the  truth  will  not 
surrender  itself  into  mj^  hands,  all  the  same. 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  remain  here  ?  Ought  not 
I  to  marry?  "  and,  just  imagine,  this  thought  of 
marriage  did  not  alarm  me  in  the  least  then. 
On  the  contrary,  I  was  delighted  at  it.  ]\Iore 
than  that;  that  very  same  day,  I  avowed  ni}"  in- 
tentions, only  not  to  Vyera,  but  to  ]Madame  El- 
tzofF  herself.     The  old  lady  looked  at  me. 

"  No,"— said  she:— "my  dear  fellow,  go  to 
Berlin,  and  break  yourself  a  little  more.  You 
are  good;  but  you  are  not  the  sort  of  husband 
whom  Vyera  needs." 

I  cast  down  my  eyes,  flushed  scarlet,  and — 
what  will  j)ro])ably  amaze  thee  still  more — I  in- 
wardly agreed  with  Madame  l'],ltzoff  on  the  spot. 
A  week  later  I  took  my  departure,  and  have 
never  seen  either  her  or  Vyera  since  that  time. 

I  have  described  to  thee  my  adventure  in  brief, 

U7 


"  FAUST  " 

because  I  know  that  thou  dost  not  like  anything 
"  long-(h-a\vn-out."  On  arriving  in  BerHn,  I 
very  promptly  forgot  Vyera  Nikolaevna.  .  .  . 
But,  1  must  confess,  that  the  unexpected  news 
of  her  has  agitated  me.  I  liave  been  im2)ressed 
by  the  tliougiit  that  she  is  so  near,  that  she  is  my 
neighbour,  that  I  shall  see  her  in  a  few  days. 
The  past  has  suddenly  started  up  before  me,  as 
though  it  had  sprung  out  of  the  earth,  and  were 
fairly  swooping  down  on  me.  PriimkofF  in- 
formed me  that  he  had  called  upon  me  with  the 
express  purpose  of  renewing  our  ancient  ac- 
quaintance, and  that  he  hoped  to  see  me  at  his 
house  very  shortly.  He  informed  me  that  he 
had  served  in  the  cavalry,  had  retired  with  the 
rank  of  lieutenant,  purchased  an  estate  eight 
versts  distant  from  mine,  and  was  intending  to 
occupy  liimself  with  farming;  that  he  had  had 
three  children,  but  two  of  them  had  died,  and 
only  a  five-year-old  daughter  was  left. 

"And  does  your  wife  remember  me?" — I 
asked. 

"  Yes,  she  does," — he  replied  with  a  slight  hesi- 
tation.— "  Of  course,  she  was  then  a  child,  so  to 
speak ;  but  her  mother  always  praised  you  highly, 
and  3'ou  know  how  she  prizes  every  word  of  the 
deceased." 

JNIadame  Kltzoff's  words,  that  I  was  not  a 
suitable  husband  for  Vyera,  recurred  to  my  mem- 
ory. ..."  So  thou  wert  suitable," — I  thought 

148 


"  FAUST  " 

darting  a  sidelong  glance  at  Priimkoff.  He 
spent  several  hours  at  my  house.  He  is  a  very 
good,  nice  fellow,  he  talks  very  modestly,  has 
a  very  good-natured  gaze ;  one  cannot  help  liking 
him  ....  but  his  intellectual  faculties  have  not 
developed  since  the  period  of  our  acquaintance 
with  him.  I  shall  go  to  see  him  without  fail, 
to-morrow,  perhaps.  I  shall  find  it  extremely 
interesting  to  see  how  Vj^era  Xikolaevna  has 
turned  out. 

Thou  art,  probably,  laughing  at  me  now,  thou 
rascal,  as  thou  sittest  at  thy  director's  table;  but 
nevertheless,  I  shall  write  to  thee  what  impres- 
sion she  makes  on  me.  Farewell !  Until  the  next 
letter.  Thine, 

P.  B. 

THIRD  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  June  16,  1850. 

Well,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  been  at  her  house, 
I  have  seen  her.  First  of  all,  I  must  communicate 
to  thee  a  remarkable  circumstance:  believe  me 
or  not,  as  thou  wilt,  but  slie  lias  hardly  changed 
at  all,  either  in  face  or  in  figure.  AVhcn  she  came 
out  to  greet  me,  I  almost  exclaimed  aloud:  a 
young  girl  of  seventeen,  and  that  's  all  there  is 
to  be  said!    Only,  her  eyes  are  not  like  those  of 

149 


"  FAUST  " 

a  little  nirl;  however,  even  in  her  youth  she  did 
not  have  childish  eyes,  they  were  too  bright. 
But  there  is  the  same  composure,  the  same  seren- 
ity, the  same  voice,  not  a  single  wrinkle  on  her 
brow,  just  as  though  she  had  been  lying  some- 
where in  the  snow  all  these  years.  And  now 
she  is  twenty-eight  years  old,  and  has  had  three 
children.  .  .  'T  is  incomprehensible!  Pray,  do 
not  think  that  I  am  exaggerating  out  of  preju- 
dice; on  the  contrar)^  this  immutability  in  her 
does  not  please  me. 

A  woman  of  eight-and-twenty,  a  wife  and  a 
mother,  ought  not  to  look  like  a  young  girl;  for 
she  has  not  lived  in  vain.  She  greeted  me  very 
cordialh^ ;  but  my  arrival  simply  enraptured  Pri- 
imkoff;  that  good  fellow  looks  as  though  he 
would  like  to  get  attached  to  some  one.  Their 
house  is  very  comfortable  and  clean.  Vyera  Ni- 
kolaevna  was  dressed  like  a  young  girl,  also;  all 
in  white,  with  a  sky-blue  sash,  and  a  slender  gold 
chain  on  her  neck.  Her  little  daugliter  is  very 
charming,  and  does  not  resemble  her  in  the 
least;  she  reminds  one  of  her  grandmother.  In 
the  drawing-room,  over  the  divan,  hangs  a  por- 
trait of  that  strange  woman,  a  striking  likeness. 
It  caught  mv  eve  the  moment  I  entered.  She 
seemed  to  be  staring  sternly  and  attentively  at 
me.  We  sat  down,  recalled  old  times,  and  grad- 
ually got  into  conversation.  I  kept  involuntarily 
glancing   at   the   gloomy    portrait   of   Madame 

150 


"  FAUST  " 

Eltzoff .  Vyera  XikoMevna  was  sitting  directly 
under  it;  it  is  her  favourite  place.  Fancy  my 
amazement!  To  this  day,  Vyera  Xikolaevna  has 
not  read  a  single  romance,  a  single  poem — in 
short,  as  she  expresses  it,  a  single  work  of  fiction! 
This  incredible  indifference  to  the  loftiest  joys 
of  the  mind  enraged  me.  In  a  sensible  woman, 
and  one  who,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  possesses  deli- 
cate feelings,  this  is  simply  unpardonable. 

"  Why,"  —  I  said:  — "  have  j'^ou  made  it  a  rule 
never  to  read  such  books?  " 

"  I  have  never  happened  to  do  it," — she  re- 
plied.— "  I  have  not  had  the  time." 

"  Xot  had  the  time!  I  am  astonished!  You 
might  at  least  have  inspired  your  wife  with  a  wish 
to  do  so,"  —  I  went  on,  addressing  Prifmkoff. 

"  It  ^^■ould  have  given  me  great  pleasure  .  .  .  ." 
PriimkofF  began,  but  Vyera  Xikolaevna  inter- 
rupted him. 

"Don't  pretend;  thou  art  no  great  lover  of 
poetry  thyself." 

"  Of  poetry," — he  began,  — "  I  really  am  not 
very  fond;  but  romances,  for  example.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  do  you  do,  how  do  you  occupy 
yourselves  evenings?"  —  I  inquired.  —  "Do  you 
play  cards?  " 

"Sometimes  we  do,"  —  she  replied:  —  "but 
is  n't  there  plenty  to  occupy  us?  We  read,  also; 
there  are  good  books  besides  j)octry." 

"  Why  do  you  attack  poetry  so?  " 

151 


"  FAUST  " 

*'  I  don't  attack  it;  I  have  been  accustomed 
from  my  childhood  not  to  read  works  of  fiction; 
my  mother  thought  that  was  proper,  and  the 
longer  I  live,  the  more  convinced  do  I  become 
that  everything  which  my  mother  did,  everything 
she  said,  was  the  truth,  the  sacred  truth." 

"  Well,  as  you  like ;  but  I  cannot  agree  with 
you.  I  am  convinced  that  you  do  wrong  in  de- 
priving yourself  of  the  purest,  the  most  lawful 
enjoyment.  Surely,  you  do  not  reject  music, 
painting;  then  why  should  you  reject  poetrj^?  " 

"  I  do  not  reject  it.  Up  to  the  present  time 
I  have  not  made  acquaintance  with  it — that  is 
all." 

"  Then  I  shall  take  the  matter  in  hand! 
Surely,  your  mother  did  not  forbid  you  to  ac- 
quaint yourself  with  the  productions  of  elegant 
literature  during  your  entire  life?  " 

"  No;  when  I  married,  my  mother  removed  all 
restrictions  from  me;  it  has  never  entered  my 
head  to  read  ....  what  was  it  you  called  it? 
.  .  .  well,  in  short,  to  read  romances." 

I  listened  with  surprise  to  Vyera  Nikolaevna. 
I  had  not  expected  this. 

She  gazed  at  me  with  her  tranquil  look.  That 
is  the  way  birds  gaze,  w^hen  they  are  not  afraid. 

"I  wnll  bring  you  a  book!" — I  exclaimed. 
(The  thought  of  "  Faust,"  which  I  had  recently 
read,  flashed  through  my  mind.) 

Vyera  Nikolaevna  heaved  a  soft  sigh. 

152 


"  FAUST  " 

"  It  ....  it  is  not  Georges  Sand?  "— sne  in- 
quired, not  without  timidity. 

"Ah!  so  you  have  heard  of  her?  Well,  and 
what  if  it  were  she,  where  's  the  harm?  .  .  .  No; 
I  shall  bring  you  another  author.  You  have  not 
forgotten  your  German,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Xo,  I  have  not  forgotten  it." 

"  She  speaks  it  like  a  German,"— interj^osed 
Priimkoff. 

"Well,  that  's  fine!  I  shall  bring  you  .  .  . 
but  there  now,  you  shall  see  what  a  marvellous 
thing  I  shall  bring  you." 

"  Well,  very  good,  I  shall  see.  And  now  let 
us  go  into  the  garden,  for  Xatasha  will  not  be 
able  to  sit  quietly  otherwise." 

She  put  on  a  round  straw  hat,  a  child's  hat,  ex- 
actly like  the  one  which  her  daughter  donned, 
only  a  little  larger,  and  we  betook  ourselves  to  the 
garden.  I  walked  by  her  side.  In  the  fresh 
air,  in  the  shadow  of  the  lofty  lindens,  her  face 
seemed  to  me  more  charming  than  ever,  espe- 
cially when  she  turned  slightly  and  threw  back 
her  head  in  order  to  look  up  at  me  from  under 
the  brim  of  her  hat.  Had  it  not  been  for  Pri- 
imkoff, had  it  not  been  for  the  little  girl  who  was 
skipping  on  in  front  of  us,  I  really  might  have 
thought  that  I  was  not  thirty-five  years  of  age, 
])ut  three-and-twenty;  that  I  was  only  just  mak- 
ing ready  to  set  out  for  Berlin;  the  more  so,  as 
the  garden  in  which  we  were  greatly  resembled 

153 


"  FAUST  " 

the  garden  on  Madame  l^],ltzoff 's  estate.  I  could 
not  refrain  from  communicating  my  impres- 
sions to  Vyera  Nikolaevna. 

"  Everybody  tells  me  that  I  have  changed  very 
little  in  outward  appearance,"  —  she  replied: 
— "  moreover,  T  liave  remained  the  same  in- 
wardly also." 

We  approached  a  small  Chinese  house. 

"  There,  we  did  not  have  such  a  little  house  at 
Osinovko,"  —  she  said:  —  "  but  you  must  not  mind 
its  being  so  rickety  and  faded;  it  is  very  nice 
and  cool  inside." 

We  entered  the  little  house,  I  glanced  about 
me. 

"  Do  you  know  what,  Vyera  Nikolaevna,"  — 
I  said: — "order  a  table  and  a  few  chairs  to  be 
brought  hither  before  I  come.  It  really  is  ex- 
traordinarily nice  here.  I  will  read  aloud  to  you 
here.  .  .  .  Goethe's  '  Faust '  .  .  .  .  that  is  the 
thing  I  mean  to  read  to  you." 

"  Yes;  there  are  no  flies  here," — she  remarked 
ingenuously;—"  but  w^hen  shall  you  come?  " 

"  Day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Very  well," — she  said: — "  I  will  give  orders." 

Natasha,  who  had  entered  the  house  in  com- 
pany with  us,  suddenly  uttered  a  scream,  and 
sprang  back,  all  pale. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "—asked  Vyera  Niko- 
laevna. 

"  Akh,  mamma," — said  the  little  girl,  pointing 

154 


"  FAUST  " 

at   one    corner,  —  "  look,    what    a    dreadful    spi- 
der! .  .  .  ." 

Vyera  Xikolaevna  glanced  at  the  corner;  a 
huge,  mottled  spider  was  crawling  quietly  along 
the  wall. 

"  What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of?  "—she  said:  — 
"  it  does  not  bite;  see  here." 

And  before  I  could  stop  her,  she  took  the  hid- 
eous insect  in  her  hand,  let  it  run  about  on  her 
palm,  and  flung  it  aside. 

"Well,  \'ou  are  a  brave  woman!"— I  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Where  is  the  bravery  in  that?  That  is  not 
one  of  the  poisonous  spiders." 

"  Evidently,  as  of  old,  you  are  strong  in  natu- 
ral history.  I  would  n't  have  taken  it  in  my 
hand." 

"  There  's  no  cause  to  be  afraid  of  it,"— re- 
peated Vyera  Xikolaevna. 

Natasha  gazed  silently  at  us  and  smiled. 

"  How  much  like  your  mother  she  is!  "—I  re- 
marked. 

"  Yes,"  — replied  Vyera  Xikolaevna,  with  a 
smile  of  satisfaction;  —  "  that  delights  me  greatly, 
(iod  grant  that  she  may  resemble  her  not  in  face 
ak)ne!  " 

We  were  summoned  to  dinner,  and  after  din- 
ner I  took  my  departure.  X.  B.  The  dinner  was 
very  good  and  savoury.  — I  make  this  remark  in 
parenthesis,  for  thy  benefit,  thou  sponger!     To- 

155 


"  FAUST  " 

morrow  I  shall  carry  "  Faust  "  to  them.  I  'm 
afraid  that  old  Goethe  and  1  shall  suffer  defeat. 
1  will  describe  everything  to  thee  in  detail. 

Come  now,  what  thinkest  thou  about  all  "  these 
events  "?  Probably,  that  she  has  made  a  power- 
ful impression  on  me,  that  I  am  ready  to  fall 
in  love,  and  so  forth?  Nonsense,  my  dear  fel- 
low! It  is  high  time  for  me  to  exercise  modera- 
tion. I  have  played  the  fool  long  enough;  finis! 
One  cannot  begin  life  over  again  at  my  age. 
]\Ioreover,  even  in  former  days,  I  never  liked 
women  of  that  sort.  .  .  .  But  what  women  I  did 
like!  ! 

I  tremble — my  heart  is  sore — 

I  'm  ashamed  of  my  idols. 

In  any  case,  I  am  very  glad  of  these  neigh- 
bours, I  am  glad  of  the  possibility  of  meeting 
a  sensible,  simple,  limpid  being;  but  what  hap- 
pens further  thou  shalt  know  in  due  time. 

Thine, 

P.  B. 

FOURTH  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  INI  ...  .  oe,  June  20,  1850. 

The  reading  took  place  yesterdaj^  my  dear 
friend,  and  as  to  the  precise  manner  of  it,  details 
follow.    First  of  all,  I  make  haste  to  say,  it  was 

loG 


"  FAUST  " 

an  unexpected  success  ....  that  is,  "  success  " 
is  not  the  word  for  it.  .  .  .  Come,  Hsten.  I  ar- 
rived for  dinner.  There  were  six  of  us  at  table: 
she,  Priimkoff,  her  httle  daughter,  the  gover- 
ness (an  insignificant  httle  white  figure),  I,  and 
some  old  German  or  other,  in  a  short,  liffht -brown 
frock-coat,  neat,  well-shaven,  experienced,  with 
the  most  peaceable  and  honest  of  faces,  a  tooth- 
less smile,  and  an  odour  of  chicory  coffee  .... 
all  old  Germans  smell  like  that.  He  was  intro- 
duced to  me ;  he  was  a  certain  Schimmel,  a  teacher 
of  the  German  language  in  the  family  of  Prince 
X***,  a  neighbour  of  Priimkoff,  It  appears  that 
he  is  a  favourite  of  Vyera  Xikolaevna's,  and  she 
had  invited  him  to  be  present  at  the  reading.  We 
dined  late  and  did  not  leave  the  table  for  a  long 
time;  then  we  went  for  a  stroll.  The  weather 
was  magnificent.  It  had  rained  in  the  morning, 
and  the  wind  had  been  blowing;  but  toward  even- 
ing everything  had  quieted  down.  She  and  I 
emerged  into  an  open  glade.  Directly  above 
this  glade,  a  large,  rosy  cloud  hung  high  and 
liglit;  grey  streaks,  like  smoke,  stretched  across 
it;  on  its  extreme  edge  twinkled  a  tiny  star,  now 
appearing,  now  disappearing,  wliile  a  little  fur- 
ther off  the  wliite  sickle  of  the  moon  was  visible 
against  the  faintly  crimsoned  azure.  I  pointed 
out  the  cloud  to  Vyera  Xikolaevna. 

"  Yes,"  — she  said:  —  "  it  is  very  beautiful;  but 
look   yonder."  — I    looked.      A   huge,    dark-blue 

157 


"  FAUST  " 

storm-cloud  was  ascending  like  smoke,  and  con- 
cealing tlie  setting  sun;  in  aspect,  it  presented  the 
likeness  of  a  mountain  s]K)uting  fire;  its  crest  was 
spread  athwart  tlie  sky  in  a  bi-oad  sheaf;  an  om- 
inous crimson  glow  surrounded  it  with  a  brilliant 
border,  and  in  one  spot,  at  the  very  centre  of  it, 
forced  its  way  through  the  heavy  mass,  as  though 
tearing  itself  free  from  a  red-hot  crater.  .  .  . 

"  There  is  going  to  be  a  thunder-storm,"  —  re- 
marked Priimkoff. 

But  I  am  getting  away  from  the  main  point. — 
In  my  last  letter  I  forgot  to  tell  thee  that  on  my 
return  home  from  the  PriimkofFs',  I  repented 
of  having  named  "  Faust  "  in  particular;  Schiller 
would  have  been  much  more  suitable  for  a  first 
reading,  if  it  must  be  a  German.  I  was  particu- 
larly alarmed  by  the  first  scene,  before  the  ac- 
quaintance with  Gretchen;  I  was  uneasy  on  the 
score  of  INIephistopheles  also.  But  I  was  under 
the  influence  of  "  Faust,"  and  could  not  have 
read  anything  else  with  good  will.  It  was  al- 
ready perfectly  dark  when  we  betook  ourselves 
to  the  little  Chinese  house;  it  had  been  put  in 
order  the  day  before.  Directly  opposite  the  door, 
in  front  of  a  small  divan,  stood  a  round  table, 
covered  with  a  cloth;  chairs  and  arm-chairs  were 
set  round  about;  on  the  table  burned  a  lamp.  I 
seated  m5^self  on  the  divan,  and  got  my  book. 
Vyera  Nikolaevna  placed  herself  in  an  arm- 
chair at  some  distance,  not  far  from  the  door. 

158 


"  FAUST  " 

Beyond  the  door,  in  the  darkness,  a  green  branch 
of  acacia,  illuminated  by  the  lamp,  displayed 
itself,  swaying  gently;  now  and  then  a  current 
of  night  air  diffused  itself  through  the  room. 
Priimkoff  sat  down  near  me,  at  the  table,  the 
German  by  his  side.  The  governess  had  re- 
mained in  the  house  with  Xatasha.  I  made  a  lit- 
tle introductory  speech;  I  alluded  to  the  ancient 
legend  of  Dr.  Faustus,  to  the  significance  of 
jMephistopheles,  to  Goethe  himself,  and  begged 
that  they  woidd  stop  me  if  anything  should 
seem  to  them  unintelligible.  Then  I  cleared  my 
throat.  .  .  .  PrifmkofF  asked  me  whether  I  did 
not  need  some  sugar  and  water,  and,  so  far  as  I 
was  able  to  observe,  was  greatly  pleased  with 
himself  for  having  put  that  question  to  me.  I 
declined.  Profound  silence  reigned.  I  began 
to  read,  without  raising  my  eyes;  I  felt  awk- 
ward, mv  heart  beat  violently  and  mv  voice 
trembled.  The  first  exclamation  of  sympathy 
burst  from  the  German,  and  he  alone,  during  the 
course  of  the  reading,  broke  the  silence.  .  .  . 
"Wonderful!  Sublime!"— he  kept  repeating, 
now  and  then  adding:  "  Here  it  is  deep."  Pri- 
imkoff was  bored,  as  I  could  plainly  see;  he  un- 
derstood German  imperfectly,  and  confessed 
that  he  was  not  fond  of  poetry!  ....  It  was 
his  own  fault.  —  At  ta])le,  I  had  wanted  to  hint 
that  the  reading  could  j)roceed  without  him,  but 
had  been  ashamed  to  do  so.     Vyera  Nikolaevna 

159 


"  FAUST  " 

(lid  not  stir;  a  couple  of  times  I  shot  a  stealthy 
"lance  at  her;  her  eyes  were  lixed  straight  and 
attentively  on  nie;  her  face  seemed  to  me  to  be 
])ale.  After  Faust's  first  meeting  with  Gret- 
chen,  she  separated  herself  from  the  back  of  her 
chair,  clasped  her  hands,  and  remained  motion- 
less in  that  attitude  until  the  end.  I  felt  con- 
scious that  PriimkofF  found  it  disgusting,  and 
at  first  this  chilled  me;  but  gradually  I  forgot 
all  about  him,  warmed  up,  and  read  with  fervour, 
with  enthusiasm.  ...  I  was  reading  for  Vyera 
Nikolaevna  alone;  an  inward  voice  told  me  that 
"  Faust  "  was  taking  effect  on  her.  When  I 
had  finished  (I  skipped  the  intermezzo;  that  bit, 
by  its  style,  belongs  to  the  second  part;  and  I 
also  omitted  portions  from  the  "  Night  on  the 
Brocken ")  ....  when  I  had  finished,  when 
the  last  "Heinrich!"  had  rung  out, — the  Ger- 
man ejaculated  with  emotion:  "Heavens!  how 
beautiful !  "  PriimkofF  sprang  to  his  feet  as 
though  delighted  (poor  fellow!),  heaved  a  sigh, 
and  began  to  thank  me  for  the  pleasure  I  had 
given  them.  .  .  .  But  I  did  not  answer  him;  I 
glanced  at  Vyera  Nikolaevna.  ...  I  wanted  to 
hear  what  she  would  say.  She  rose,  walked  to  the 
door  with  wavering  steps,  stood  awhile  on  the 
threshold,  and  then  quietly  went  out  into  the 
garden.  I  rushed  after  her.  She  had  already 
succeeded  in  getting  several  paces  away;  her 
white  gown  was  barely  visible  in  the  dense 
shadow. 

160 


"  FAUST  " 

"  Well?  "  I  cried;-"  did  n't  you  like  it?  " 

She  halted. 

"  Can  you  let  me  have  that  book?  " — her  voice 
rang  out, 

"  I  will  make  you  a  present  of  it,  Vj^era  Xiko- 
laevna,  if  you  care  to  have  it." 

"Thank  you!" — she  replied,  and  vanished. 

Priimkoff  and  the  German  approached  me. 

"How  wonderfully  warm  it  is!" — remarked 
Priimkoff :  —  "  even  sultry.  But  where  has  my 
wife  gone?  " 

"  To  the  house,  I  believe," — I  replied. 

"  I  think  it  will  soon  be  supper-time," — he  re- 
sponded.— "  You  read  capitally,  capitally,"  —  he 
added,  after  a  brief  pause. 

"  Vyera  Xikolaevna  seemed  to  be  pleased  with 
*  Faust,'  "  I  remarked. 

"Without  doubt!"  —  exclaimed  Priimkoff. 

"  Oh,  of  course!  " — chimed  in  Schimmel. 

We  entered  the  house. 

"Where  is  the  mistress?"  —  Priimkoff  asked 
of  a  maid  whom  we  encountered. 

"  She  has  been  pleased  to  go  to  her  bedroom." 

Priimkoff  chrected  his  steps  to  the  bedroom. 

I  went  out  on  the  terrace  with  Schimmel.  The 
old  man  raised  liis  eves  to  the  sky. 

a.  ^ 

"  Plow  many  stars  there  are! "  —  he  said  slowlv, 
as  he  took  a  ])inch  of  snuff;  —  "  and  all  of  them 
are  worlds," — he  added,  taking  another  j)in('h. 

I  (hd  not  consider  it  necessary  to  answer  him, 
and  only  gazed  upward  in  silence.    A  secret  per- 

ICl 


"FAUST" 

plcxity  was  wci<>lHnp^  on  my  soul.  .  .  .  The  stars 
seemed  to  me  to  be  <>azin<>'  seriously  at  us.  Five 
minutes  later,  Priimkoff'  made  his  appearance 
and  summoned  us  to  the  dining-room.  Vyera 
Nikolaevna  soon  came  also.    We  sat  down. 

"  Just  look  at  Vyerotchka,"  —  said  Priimkoff 
to  me. 

I  glanced  at  her. 

"Well?     Don't  you  notice  anything?" 

I  really  did  note  a  change  in  her  face,  but  I 
know  not  why  I  answered: 

"  No,  nothing." 

"  Her  eyes  are  red," — went  on  PriimkofF. 

I  held  my  peace. 

"  Just  fancy,  I  went  to  her  up-stairs,  and 
found  her;  she  was  crying.  It  is  a  long  time 
since  that  has  happened  with  her.  I  can  tell  you 
the  last  time  she  cried:  it  was  when  our  Sasha 
died.  So  that  's  what  you  have  done  with  your 
'  Faust '!  "  he  added  with  a  smile. 

"  You  must  see  now,  Vyera  Nikolaevna,"  —  I 
began,  — "  that  I  was  right  when  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  had  not  expected  that,"  —  she  interrupted 
me; — "but  God  knows  whether  you  are  right. 
Perhaps  the  reason  my  mother  prohibited  my 
reading  such  books  was  because  she  knew  .  .  .  ." 

Vyera  Nikolaevna  stopped  short. 

"Because    she    knew?" — I    repeated. — "Tell 


me." 


"  What  is  the  use?    I  am  ashamed  of  myself 

162 


"  FAUST  " 

as  it  is;  what  was  I  crying  about?  However,  you 
and  I  will  discuss  this  further.  There  were  many 
things  which  I  did  not  quite  understand." 

"  Then  why  did  n't  you  stop  me?  " 

"  I  understood  all  the  words,  and  their  sense, 
but  .  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  finish  her  phrase,  and  became  pen- 
sive. At  that  moment,  the  noise  of  the  foliage, 
suddenly  stirred  by  the  rising  wind,  swept 
through  the  garden.  Vyera  Xikolaevna  started, 
and  turned  her  face  toward  the  open  window. 

"  I  told  you  that  there  would  be  a  thunder- 
storm! "  —  cried  Priimkoff.  —  "  But  what  makes 
thee  tremble  so,  Vyerotchka?  " 

She  glanced  at  him  in  silence.  The  lightning, 
flashing  faintlv  far  awav,  was  reflected  on  her 
impassive  face. 

"  All  thanks  to  '  Faust,'  "—went  on  Priimkoff. 

"  After  supper,  we  must  go  inmiediately  to 
bye-bye,  ....  must  n't  we,  Herr  Schimmel?  " 

"  After  moral  pleasure  physical  rej)Ose  is  as 
})eneficial  as  it  is  useful,"  —  replied  the  good  Ger- 
man, drinking  off*  a  glass  of  vodka. 

We  parted  immediately  after  supper.  As 
I  bade  Vyera  Xikolaevna  good  night,  I  shook 
hands  with  her;  her  hand  was  cold.  I  reached 
the  cliamber  assigned  to  me,  and  stood  for  a  long 
time  at  the  window  before  undressing  and  get- 
ting into  bed. 

Priimkoff 's  ])re(liction   was   fulfilled;  a  thun- 


"FAUST" 

der-storin  gathered  and  broke.  I  listened  to  the 
roar  of  the  wind,  the  elatter  and  beating  of  the 
rain,  I  saw  how,  at  every  flash  of  lightning,  the 
chnrch,  bnilt  close  at  hand,  near  the  lake,  now 
suddenly  was  revealed  in  black  against  a  white 
ground,  then  as  white  against  a  black  ground, 
then  again  was  swallowed  up  in  the  gloom.  .  .  . 
But  my  thoughts  were  far  away.  I  was  thinking 
of  Vyera  Nikolaevna:  I  was  thinking  of  what 
she  would  say  to  me  when  she  should  have  read 
"Faust"  herself;  I  w^as  thinking  of  her  tears; 
I  was  recalling  how  she  had  listened.  .  .  . 

The  thunder-storm  had  long  since  passed  off, 
—  the  stars  were  beaming,  everything  had  fallen 
silent  round  about.  Some  bird  with  which  I  was 
not  familiar  was  singing  in  various  tones,  re- 
peating the  same  phrase  several  times  in  suc- 
cession. Its  resonant,  solitary  voice  rang  out 
oddly  amid  the  profound  silence;  and  still  I  did 
not  go  to  bed.  .  .  . 

On  the  follo^ving  morning  I  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room earlier  than  all  the  rest,  and  halted  in 
front  of  Madame  EltzofF's  portrait.  —  "What 
didst  thou  make  by  it?" — I  thought,  with  a  se- 
cret feeling  of  jeering  triumph,  — "  for  here, 
seest  thou,  I  have  read  to  thj^  daughter  a  for- 
bidden book!"  All  at  once,  it  seemed  to  me 
....  probably  thou  hast  noticed  that  eyes 
painted  en  face  always  seem  to  be  riveted 
straight  on  the  spectator?  .  .  .  But  on  this  oc- 

104 


"  FAUST  " 

casion,  it  really  did  seem  to  me  as  though  the  old 
lady  had  turned  them  on  me  reproachfull5^ 

I  turned  away,  walked  to  the  window,  and 
beheld  Vyera  Xikolaevna.  With  a  parasol  on 
her  shoulder,  and  a  thin  white  kerchief  on  her 
head,  she  was  strolling  in  the  garden.  I  imme- 
diately went  out  and  bade  her  good  morning.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  not  slept  all  night,"  —  she  said  to  me; 
—  "I  have  a  headache;  I  have  come  out  into  the 
air  to  see  if  it  will  not  pass  off." 

"  Can  it  have  been  caused  by  last  night's  read- 
ing? "  —  I  asked. 

"  Of  course  it  was;  I  am  not  used  to  that. 
There  are  things  in  that  book  of  yours  which  I 
cannot  get  rid  of;  it  seems  to  me  that  they  are 
fairly  searing  my  brain," — she  added,  laying  her 
hand  on  her  brow. 

"Very  good  indeed,"  —  said  I:  —  "but  this  is 
the  bad  thing  about  it:  I  'm  afraid  this  sleepless- 
ness and  headache  have  destroyed  your  wish  to 
read  such  things." 

"Do  you  tliink  so?"  —  she  returned,  breaking 
off  a  spray  of  wild  jasmine  as  she  passed. — 
"  God  knows!  It  seems  to  me  that  any  one 
who  has  entered  upon  that  road  cannot  turn 
back." 

She  suddenly  Hung  aside  the  spray. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  in  that  arbour," — she  went 
on,  —  "  and  until  I  speak  to  you  of  it  myself, 
j)lease  do  not  remind  me  ....  of  that  book." 

10.5 


"  FAUST  " 

(She  seemed  to  be  afraid  to  pronounce  the  name 
of  "  Faust.") 

We  entered  the  arbour  and  seated  ourselves. 

"  I  will  not  talk  to  you  about  '  Faust/  "  I  be- 
gan;— "  but  you  must  allow  me  to  congratulate 
you,  and  to  tell  you  that  I  envy  you." 

"  You  envy  me?  " 

"Yes;  as  I  know  you  now,  with  your  soul, 
how  much  enjoyment  you  have  in  store!  There 
are  other  great  poets  besides  Goethe :  Shakspeare, 
Schiller  ....  yes,  and  our  own  Pushkin  .... 
and  you  must  make  acquaintance  with  them  also." 

She  maintained  silence,  and  drew  figures  on 
the  sand  with  her  parasol. 

Oh,  my  friend,  Semyon  Nikolaitch!  if  thou 
couldst  but  have  seen  how  charming  she  was  at 
that  moment!  Pale  almost  to  transparency, 
slightly  bent  forward,  weary,  inwardly  dis- 
traught,— and  nevertheless  serene  as  the  sky!  I 
talked,  talked  a  long  time,  then  fell  silent— and 
sat  there  silently  w^atching  her.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  and  continued  now 
to  sketch  with  her  parasol,  now  to  erase  what  she 
had  drawn.  Suddenly  the  sound  of  brisk,  child- 
ish footsteps  resounded:  Natasha  ran  into  the 
arbour.  Vyera  Nikolaevna  straightened  her- 
self up,  rose,  and,  to  my  amazement,  embraced 
her  daughter  with  a  sort  of  impulsive  tenderness. 
....  This  was  not  her  habit.  Then  Priimkoff 
made   his   appearance.      That   grey-haired   but 

166 


"  FAUST  " 

punctual,  fine  fellow  Schimmel  had  gone  away 
before  daybreak,  in  order  not  to  miss  his  lesson. 
We  went  to  drink  tea. 

But  I  am  tired;  it  is  time  to  bring  this  letter 
to  an  end.     It  must  seem  silly,  confused  to  thee. 
I  feel  confused  myself.     I  am  out  of  sorts.     I 
don't  know  what  ails  me.     There  is  constantly 
flitting  before  my  vision  a  tiny  room  with  bare 
walls,  a  lamp,  an  open  door,  the  scent  and  fresh- 
ness of  night,  and  there,  near  the  door,  an  at- 
tentive young  face,  thin,  white  garments.  .  .  . 
I  understand  now  why  I  wanted  to  marry  her; 
evidently,  I  was  .not  so  stupid  before  my  trip  to 
Berlin  as  I  have  hitherto  thought.    Yes,  Semyon 
Xikoltiitch,  your  friend   is  in   a  strange   frame 
of  mind.    xVll  tliis  will  pass  off,  I  know  .  .  .  but 
what  if  it  should  not  pass  off —well,  what  then? 
I  am  satisfied  with  myself,  nevertheless;  in  the 
first  place,  I  have  spent  a  wonderful  evening; 
and  in  the  second  place,  if  I  have  awakened  that 
soul,  who  can  blame  me?     Old  ^ladame  KltzofF 
is  nailed  to  the  wall  and  must  hold  her  peace. 
The    old    lady!  ....   I    do    not    know    all   the 
particulars  of  lier  life;  but  I  do  know  tliat  she 
eloped   from  lier   father's  liouse;  evidently,  she 
was   not   born    of   an    Italian   motlier   for   noth- 
ing.    Slie  wanted  to  insure  her  daughter     We 
shall  see. 

I   fling  aside  my   pen.      Thou,  jeering  man, 
please  to  think  of  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  don't 

IfiT 


'  FAUST  " 

make  fun  of  me  by  letter.     Thou  and  I  are  old 
friends,  and  must  sj)are  each  other.     Farewell! 

Thine, 

P.  B. 

FIFTH  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  July  26,  1850. 
I  HAA^E  not  written  to  thee  for  a  long  time,  my 
dear  Semyon  Nikolaitch;  not  for  more  than  a 
month,  I  think.  There  has  been  plenty  to  write 
about;  but  I  have  been  too  lazy.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  have  hardly  thought  of  thee  during  the 
M'hole  of  that  time.  But  I  may  deduce  from 
thy  last  letter  to  me  that  thou  art  making  as- 
sumptions about  me  which  are  unjust;  that  is  to 
say,  not  quite  just.  Thou  thinkest  that  I  am  car- 
ried away  by  Vyera  ( somehow,  I  find  it  awkward 
to  call  her  Vyera  Nikolaevna)  ;  thou  art  mistaken. 
Of  course,  I  see  her  frequently;  I  like  her  ex- 
tremely ....  and  who  would  not  like  her  ?  I  should 
just  like  to  see  thee  in  my  place.  She  's  a  won- 
derful creature!  Instantaneous  penetration  hand 
in  hand  with  the  inexperience  of  a  baby;  clear, 
sound  sense  and  innate  feeling  for  beauty,  a  con- 
stant striving  for  the  truth,  for  the  lofty,  and  a 
comprehension  of  everything,  even  of  the  vicious, 
even  of  the  ridiculous — and,  over  all  this,  like 

168 


"  FAUST  " 

the  white  wings  of  an  angel,  gentle  feminine 
charm.  .  .  .  But  what 's  the  use  of  talking !  We 
have  read  a  great  deal,  discussed  a  great  deal,  she 
and  I,  in  the  course  of  this  month.  To  read  with 
her  is  a  delight  such  as  I  have  not  hitherto  ex- 
perienced. It  is  as  though  one  were  opening 
fresh  pages.  She  never  goes  into  raptures  over 
anything;  everything  noisy  is  alien  to  her;  she 
quietly  beams  all  over  when  anything  pleases 
her,  and  her  face  assumes  such  a  noble,  good 
....  precisely  that,  good  expression.  From 
her  earliest  childhood  Vyera  has  never  known 
what  it  is  to  lie;  she  has  become  accustomed  to 
the  truth,  she  is  redolent  of  it,  and  therefore  in 
poetry  the  truth  alone  appears  natural  to  her; 
she  immediately  recognises  it,  without  difficulty, 
as  a  famihar  face  ....  a  great  advantage  and 
liappiness!  It  is  impossible  not  to  hold  her 
mother  in  kindly  memory  for  that.  How  many 
times  have  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  Vyera: 
"  Yes,  Goethe  is  right:—'  a  good  man  in  his  ob- 
scure aspirations  always  feels  where  the  true 
road  lies.'  "  '  One  thing  is  vexatious ;  her  husband 
is  always  lianging  around.  (Please  don't  in- 
dulge in  your  stupid  laugh,  don't  sully  our 
friendship  by  even  so  much  as  a  tliought.)  He  is 
as  capable  of  understanding  poetry  as  I  am  of 
playing  the  flute,  and  he  won't  leave  his  wife;  he 
wants  to  be  enlightened   also.      Sometimes   she 

I  "  Faust,"  the  Proloj^uc  to  Part  I. 

1G9 


"  FAUST  " 

licrself  puts  me  out  of  patience:  a  queer  sort  of 
mood  will  suddenly  come  over  her;  she  will  nei- 
ther read  nor  converse;  she  works  at  her  em- 
broidery-frame, and  fusses  with  Natasha,  with 
the  housekeeper,  suddenly  runs  off  to  the  kitchen, 
or  simply  sits  with  folded  hands  and  stares  out 
of  the  window,  or  sets  to  playing  "  fool  "  ^  with 
the  nurse.  ...  I  have  observed  that  on  such 
occasions  I  must  not  worrj'^  her,  but  that  it  is  best 
to  wait  until  she  herself  approaches  me,  and 
starts  a  conversation,  or  takes  up  a  book.  She 
has  a  great  deal  of  independence,  and  I  am  very 
glad  of  that.  Dost  thou  remember  how,  in  the 
days  of  our  youth,  some  young  girl  or  other 
would  repeat  to  thee  thy  own  words,  to  the  best 
of  her  ability,  and  thou  wouldst  go  into  raptures 
over  that  echo  and,  probably,  bow  down  before 
it,  until  thou  didst  get  an  inkling  of  the  real 
state  of  the  case?  But  this  woman  ...  no;  she- 
thinks  for  herself.  She  will  accept  nothing  on 
faith;  one  cannot  frighten  her  by  authority;  she 
will  not  dispute;  but  she  will  not  give  in.  She 
and  I  have  argued  over  "  Faust "  more  than 
once;  but — strange  to  say! — she  never  says  any- 
thing about  Gretchen  herself,  but  merely  listens 
to  what  I  say  of  her.  Mephistopheles  alarms 
her,  not  as  the  devil,  but  as  "  something  whiclr, 
may  exist  in  every  jnan.  .  .  ."  TEoseareTier 
very  words.    Flindertook  to  explain  to  her  that 

^  A  Russian  card-game.  —  Tp\nslatoe. 

170 


"  FAUST  " 

we  called  that  "something"  reflex  action;  but 
she  did  not  understand  the  words  "  reflex  action  " 
in  the  German  sense;  she  knows  only  the  French 
"  reflexion"  and  has  become  accustomed  to  con- 
sider it  useful. 

Our  relations  are  remarkable!  From  a  cer- 
tain point  of  view  I  may  say  that  I  have  great 
influence  over  her,  and  am  educating  her,  as  it 
were;  but  without  herself  being  aware  of  the 
fact,  she  is  transforming  many  things  in  me  for 
the  better.  For  example,  it  is  solely  due  to  her 
that  I  have  recently  discovered  what  an  immense 
amount  of  the  conventional,  the  rhetorical  there  is 
in  the  finest,  the  most  famous  ])oetical  produc- 
tions. That  to  wliich  she  remains  cold  becomes 
at  once  suspicious  in  my  eyes.  Yes,  I  have  grown 
better,  more  serene.  To  be  intimate  with  her,  to 
meet  her,  and  remain  the  same  man  as  before  is 
an  impossibility. 

"  What  is  to  be  the  upshot  of  all  this?  "  thou 
wilt  ask.  W\\\,  really,  nothing,  I  think.  I  am 
passing  my  time  very  agreeably  until  September, 
and  then  I  shall  go  away.  Life  will  seem  dark 
and  tedious  to  me  during  the  first  montlis.  .  .  . 
But  I  sliall  get  used  to  it.  I  know  how  danger- 
ous is  any  sort  of  a  tie  between  a  man  and  a 
voung  woman,  how  imperceptibly  one  feeling 
is  rej)lace(l  })y  anotlier.  ...  I  would  liave  man- 
aged to  wrench  myself  away,  had  I  not  known 
that  both  of  us  are  perfectly  cahu.     Truth  to 

171 


"  FAUST  " 

tell,  one  day  something  strano'c  happened  with 
us.  I  know  not  how,  and  as  a  result  of  what — 
I  remember  that  we  were  reading  "  Onyegin  "  ^ 
—  and  I  kissed  her  hand.  She  recoiled  slightlj^ 
riveted  a  glance  ui)on  me  (I  have  never  be- 
held such  a  glance  in  any  one  but  her;  it  contains 
both  pensiveness  and  attention,  and  a  sort  of 
severity)  ....  suddenly  blushed,  rose,  and  left 
the  room.  I  did  not  succeed  in  being  alone  with 
her  again  that  day.  She  avoided  me,  and  for  four 
mortal  hours  played  with  her  husband,  the 
nurse,  and  the  governess  at  "  Trumps."  The 
next  morning  she  suggested  that  we  should  go 
into  the  garden.  We  walked  the  whole  length 
of  it,  clear  to  the  lake.  Suddenly  she  whispered 
softly,  without  turning  toward  me:  "  Please 
don't  do  that  again!" — and  immediately  began 
to  narrate  something  to  me.  ...  I  was  very 
much  abashed. 

I  must  confess  that  her  image  never  leaves  my 
mind,  and  I  probably  have  begun  to  w^rite  this 
letter  to  thee  more  with  the  object  of  securing 
the  possibility  of  thinking  and  talking  about  her, 
than  anything  else.  I  hear  the  neighing  and 
trampling  of  horses:  it  is  my  calash  being 
brought  round.  I  am  going  to  their  house. 
JNIy  coachman  no  longer  asks  me  whither  he 
shall  drive  when  I  take  my  seat  in  the  equi- 
page,— he    drives    straight    to    the    Priimkoifs'. 

1  Pushkin's  poem,  "  Evgeny  Onyegin."— Transi-ator. 

172 


"  FAUST  " 

Two  versts  distant  from  their  village,  at  a  sharp 
turn  of  the  road,  their  manor-house  suddenly 
peers  forth  from  behind  a  birch-grove.  .  .  .  Every 
time  my  heart  leaps  with  joy  as  soon  as  the  win- 
dows of  her  house  gleam  forth.  Schimmel  (that 
harmless  old  man  comes  to  them  occasionallv; 
they  have  seen  the  family  of  Prince  X***  only 
once,  thank  God!)  ....  Schimmel  says,  not 
without  cause,  with  the  modest  triumph  peculiar 
to  him,  as  he  points  to  the  house  where  Vyera 
dwells:  "That  is  the  abode  of  peace!"  The 
angel  of  peace  has  taken  up  its  abode  in  that 

house.  .  .  . 

Cover  me  with  thv  pinions, 
My  heart ""s  emotion  allay, — 
And  blessed  shall  be  that  shadow 
For  my  enchanted  soul.  .  .  . 

But  come,  enough  of  this,— or  God  knows  what 
thou  wilt  think,  — until  the  next  time.  .  .  .  What 
shall  I  write  the  next  time? — Good-bye! — By  the 
way,  she  will  never  say  "  good-bye,"  but  always: 
"  Well,  good-bye."— i  hke  that  awfully. 

Thine, 

P.  B. 

P.  S.  —  I  don't  remember  wlietlicr  I  have  told 
thee  that  she  knows  I  proposed  for  her  hand. 


173 


« 


FAUST  " 


SIXTH  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  ]M  .  .  .  .  oe,  August  10,  1850. 

Confess  that  thou  art  expecting  either  a  despair- 
ing or  a  rapturous  letter  from  me.  .  .  .  Nothing 
of  the  sort.  INIy  letter  will  be  like  all  letters. 
Nothing  new  has  happened,  and  nothing  can  hap- 
pen, I  think.  The  other  day  we  were  rowing  in 
a  boat  on  the  lake.  I  will  describe  that  jaunt 
to  thee.  There  were  three  of  us:  she,  Schimmel 
and  I.  I  cannot  understand  what  possesses  her  to 
invite  that  old  man  so  often.  The  X***s  are  put 
out  with  him,  they  say,  because  he  has  begun  to 
neglect  his  lessons.  But  on  this  occasion  he  was 
amusing.  PriimkofF  did  not  go  with  us:  he  had 
a  headache.  The  w^eather  was  magnificent,  cheer- 
ful ;  there  were  huge  white  ragged-looking  storm- 
clouds  all  over  the  blue  sky ;  everywhere  there  was 
a  gleam,  a  rustling  in  the  trees,  a  plashing  and 
rippling  of  tlie  water  on  the  shores ;  on  the  waves 
darting  golden  serpents  of  light,  coolness  and 
sunshine! — At  first  I  and  the  German  rowed; 
then  we  raised  the  sail  and  dashed  headlong  on- 
ward. The  bow  of  the  boat  fairly  dived  through 
the  waves,  and  the  wake  behind  the  stern  hissed 
and  foamed.  She  sat  at  the  helm  and  steered; 
she  had  tied  a  kerchief  over  her  head:  a  hat 

174 


"  FAUST  " 

would  have  blown  off ;  her  curls  burst  forth  from 
beneath    it,    and   floated    softly   on   the    breeze. 
She  held  the  helm  firmly  with  her  sun-burned 
little  hand,  and  smiled  at  the  splashes  of  water 
which  flew  in  her  face  from  time  to  time.    I  curled 
myself  up  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  not  far  from 
her  feet,  the  German  pulled  out  his  pipe,  lighted 
up  his  coarse  tobacco,  and— just  fancy!— began 
to  sing  in  a  fairly  agreeable  bass  voice.    First  he 
sang  the  old  ballad:  "  Freuf  euch  des  Lebetisf 
then  an  aria  from  "  The  ^Magic  Flute,"  then  a 
romance    entitled    "  Love's    Alphabet  "— '^  Das 
A-B-C  der  Liehe."    In  this  romance  the  whole 
alphabet    is    recited,— with    appropriate    quaint 
sayings,  of  course,- beginning  with:  "Ah,  Bay, 
Say,  Day,—  Wenn  ich   dicli  seh!"  and  ending 
\\ith"Oo,Fau,Vay,Ecks,—3Iach  einen  Knicks!" 
He  sang  all  the  couplets  through  with  tender 
expression;   but   thou    shouldst   have   seen   how 
roguishly  he  screwed  up  his  left  eye  at  the  word 
"  Knicks "'/— Vyera    burst    out    laughing    and 
shook  her  finger  at  him.    I  remarked  that  it  struck 
me  Herr  Schimmel  had  been  no  fool  in  his  day. 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  could  stand  up  for  myself!  "  he  re- 
plied pompously,  knocking  the  aslies  out  of  his 
pipe  into  his  ])ahn;  and  thrusting  his  fingers  into 
his  tobacco-pouch,  he  gripped  tlie  mouth])iece  of 
liis  pipe  swaggeringly,  on  one  side,  with  liis  teeth. 
"  ^Vhen  T  was  a  student,"— he  added,  —  "  o-lio- 
ho!"    He  said  no  more,    l^ut  what  an  "o-ho-ho!" 

17.5 


"  FAUST  " 

that  was! — Vyera  requested  him  to  sing  some 
student  song,  and  he  sang  to  her:  "  Knaster,  den 
gclbcn,"  but  got  out  of  tune  on  the  last  note. 

In  the  meantime,  the  wind  had  increased,  the 
Avaves  had  begun  to  run  rather  high,  the  boat 
careened  over  somewhat;  swallows  were  darting 
low  around  us.  We  put  the  sail  over  and  began 
to  jibe.  The  wind  suddenly  veered  about;  we  had 
not  succeeded  in  com])leting  the  manoeuvre,  when 
a  wave  dashed  over  the  side,  and  the  boat  took  in 
a  quantity  of  water.  Here,  also,  the  German 
showed  himself  to  be  a  fine  fellow;  he  snatched 
the  sheet-rope  from  my  hand,  and  jibed  in  proper 
fashion,  remarking,  as  he  did  so:  "  That  's  the 
way  they  do  at  Kuxhafen!  " — "  So  uiacht  mans 
in  Kuxhafen! " 

Vyera  was  probably  frightened,  for  she  turned 
pale;  but,  according  to  her  wont,  she  did  not 
utter  a  word,  but  gathered  up  her  gown  and 
placed  her  feet  on  the  thwart  of  the  boat.  Sud- 
denly there  flashed  across  my  mind  Goethe's 
poem  (I  have  been  thoroughly  infected  by  him 
for  some  time  past)  ....  dost  thou  remember 
it?  "  On  the  waves  twinkle  thousands  of  quiv- 
ering stars";  and  I  recited  it  aloud.  When  I 
reached  the  line:  "  Mine  eyes,  why  do  ye  droop?" 
she  raised  her  eyes  a  little  (I  was  sitting  lower 
than  she:  her  glance  fell  upon  me  from  above) 
and  gazed  for  a  long  time  into  the  far  distance, 
narrowing  her  eyes  to  protect  them  from  the 

176 


"  FAUST  " 

wind.  ...  A  light  rain  came  up  in  an  instant, 
and  pattered  in  bubbles  on  the  water.  I  offered 
her  my  overcoat ;  she  threw  it  over  her  shoulders. 
We  landed  on  the  shore,  — not  at  the  wharf,— 
and  went  to  the  house  on  foot.  I  walked  arm  in 
arm  with  her.  All  the  time  I  felt  like  saying 
something  to  her;  but  I  held  my  peace.  But  I 
remember  asking  her  why,  when  she  was  at  home, 
she  always  sat  under  the  portrait  of  Madame 
Eltzoff,  just  like  a  birdling  under  its  mother's 
wing.  — "  Your  comparison  is  very  accurate,"  — 
she  replied:  — "  I  should  never  wish  to  emerge 
from  beneath  her  wing."  — "  Would  n't  you  like 
to  emerge  into  freedom?  "  —  I  asked  another  ques- 
tion.    She  made  no  reply. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  have  told  thee  about  this 
expedition,  —  perhaps  because  it  has  lingered  in 
my  memory  as  one  of  the  briglitest  events  of 
recent  days,  although,  in  reality,  how  can  it  be 
called  an  event?  I  was  so  delighted  and  speech- 
lessly happy,  and  tears — light,  happy  tears — 
fairly  gushed  from  my  eyes. 

Yes;  just  fancy!  On  the  following  day,  as  I 
was  strolhng  through  the  garden,  past  the  arbour, 
I  suddenly  heard  an  agreeable,  ringing,  feminine 
voice  singing,  ''  Freut'  cuch  des  Lehens."  .  .  . 
I  ghmced  into  the  arbour:  —  it  was  Vyera. 

"  Bravo!  "  —  I  exclaimed;  —  "  I  was  not  aware 
tliat  you  had  sucli  a  tine  voice!"  —  She  was 
abashed,  and  stopped  singing.    Seriously,  she  has 

177 


"  FAUST  " 

ail  excellent,  strong  soprano  voice.  But  I  don't 
believe  she  even  suspected  that  she  had  a  good 
voice.  How  many  untouched  treasures  are  still 
concealed  in  her!  She  does  not  know  herself .  But 
such  a  woman  is  a  rarity  in  our  day,  is  she  not? 

August  12. 

"We  had  a  very  strange  conversation  yesterday. 
First  we  talked  about  visions.  Just  imagine;  she 
believes  in  them,  and  says  that  she  has  her  rea- 
sons for  so  doing.  PriimkofF,  who  was  sitting 
with  us,  dropped  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head,  as 
though  in  confirmation  of  her  words.  I  tried  to 
interrogate  her;  but  speedily  perceived  that  the 
conversation  was  disagreeable  to  her.  We  be- 
gan to  talk  about  imagination,  about  the  force 
of  imagination.  I  narrated  how,  in  my  youth, 
being  in  the  habit  of  dreaming  a  great  deal  about 
happiness  (the  customary  occupation  of  people 
who  have  not  had,  or  will  not  have  luck  in  life), 
I  had,  among  other  things,  dreamed  of  what 
bliss  it  would  be  to  pass  a  few  weeks  in  Venice 
with  the  woman  I  loved.  I  thought  of  this  so 
often,  especially  at  night,  that  I  gradually  formed 
in  my  mind  a  complete  pictm-e,  which  I  could 
summon  up  before  me  at  will:  all  I  had  to  do 
was  to  shut  my  eyes.  This  is  what  presented 
itself  to  me:  —  Night,  the  moon,  white  and  tender 
moonlight,  fragrance  ....  the  fragrance  of  the 
orange-flower,   thinkest   thou?     No,   of  vanilla, 

178 


"  FAUST  " 

the  fragrance  of  the  cactus,  a  broad  watery 
expanse,  a  flat  island  overgrown  with  oHve- 
trees;  on  the  island,  on  the  very  shore,  a  small 
marble  house,  with  wide-open  windows;  music 
is  audible  —  M'hence,  God  knows;  in  the  house 
are  trees  with  dark  foliage,  and  the  light  of  a 
half -veiled  lamp;  a  heavy  velvet  mantle  with 
golden  fringe  has  been  thrown  over  one  window- 
sill,  and  one  end  of  it  is  trailing  in  the  water; 
while,  side  by  side,  wuth  their  arms  resting  on  the 
mantle,  sit  he  and  she,  gazing  far  away  to  the 
spot  where  Venice  is  visible.  —  All  this  presented 
itself  to  me  as  plainly  as  though  I  had  beheld  it 
all  with  my  own  eyes. 

She  listened  to  my  nonsense,  and  said  that  she 
also  often  indulged  in  reverie,  but  that  her  dreams 
were  of  a  different  nature:  she  either  imagined 
herself  on  the  plains  of  Africa,  with  some  trav- 
eller or  other,  or  hunting  for  the  traces  of 
Franklin  in  the  Arctic  Ocean;  she  vividly  pic- 
tured to  herself  all  the  hardshi])s  wliich  she  must 
undergo,  all  the  difficulties  with  which  she  must 
contend.  .  .  . 

"  Thou  hast  read  a  quantity  of  travels,"— re- 
marked lier  husl)an(l. 

"  Perhaps  so,"— she  rejoined.  "  But  if  one  is 
to  dream,  wliat  ])ossesses  one  to  dream  of  the  im- 
possi])le?  " 

"Hilt  why  not?"— I  interposed.  — "  How  is 
the  poor  impossible  to  blame?  " 

179 


"  FAUST  " 

"  I  (lid  not  express  myself  correctly," — said 
she: — "  1  meant  to  say,  what  possesses  a  person 
to  dream  of  himself,  of  his  own  happiness? 
There  is  no  use  in  tliinking  about  it;  if  it  does 
not  come,  —  why  pursue  it?  It  is  like  health:  when 
one  does  not  notice  it,  it  means  that  one  possesses 

it. 

These  words  amazed  me.  That  woman  has  a 
great  soul,  believe  me.  .  .  .  From  Venice  the 
conversation  passed  to  Italy,  to  the  Italians, 
Priimkoff  left  the  room,  and  Vyera  and  I  were 
left  alone. 

"  There  is  Italian  blood  in  your  veins  also," — 
I  remarked. 

"  Yes,"  —  she  resj^onded: — "  I  will  show  you 
the  portrait  of  my  grandmother,  if  you  wish." 

"  Pray  do." 

She  went  into  her  boudoir  and  brought  thence 
a  rather  large  gold  locket.  On  opening  this 
locket,  I  beheld  a  splendidly-painted  miniature 
portrait  of  INIadame  EltzofF's  father  and  his  wife, 
— that  peasant  from  Albano.  Vy era's  grand- 
father surprised  me  by  his  likeness  to  his  daugh- 
ter. Only  his  features,  rimmed  with  a  white 
cloud  of  powder,  appeared  still  more  severe,  still 
more  sharp  and  pointed,  and  in  his  little,  yellow 
eyes  gleamed  a  sort  of  surly  stubbornness.  But 
what  a  face  the  Italian  girl  had!  sensual,  open 
like  a  full-blown  rose,  with  big,  prominent,  humid 
eyes,   and   conceitedly -smiling,   rosy  lips!     The 

180 


"  FAUST  " 

thin,  sensitive  nostrils  seemed  to  be  quivering,  and 
inflating,  as  after  recent  kisses;  from  her  dark- 
skinned  cheeks  sultry  heat  and  health  seemed  to 
emanate,  and  the  splendour  of  youth,  and  femi- 
nine force.  .  .  .  That  brow  had  never  thought, 
and  God  be  thanked  for  that!  She  was  depicted 
in  her  Albanian  costume;  the  artist  (a  master) 
had  placed  a  spray  of  vine-leaves  in  her  hair, 
which  was  black  as  pitch,  with  bright -grey  reflec- 
tions. Nothing  could  have  been  better  suited  to 
the  expression  of  her  face  than  that  bacchantic 
decoration.  And  knowest  thou,  of  whom  that 
face  reminded  me?  Of  my  ]\Ianon  Lescaut  in  the 
black  frame.  And,  what  is  most  astonishing  of 
all:  as  I  gazed  at  that  portrait,  I  recalled  the 
fact  that  something  resembling  that  smile,  that 
glance,  sometimes  flits  over  Vyera's  face,  despite 
the  utter  dissimilarity  of  the  outlines.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  repeat  it :  neither  she  herself  nor  am"  one 
else  in  all  the  world  knows  what  lies  hidden  within 
her.  .  .  . 

By  the  way!  ^Madame  lEltzoff*,  before  her 
daughter's  marriage,  related  to  her  the  story  of 
her  wliole  life,  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  so 
forth,  probably  with  the  object  of  edification. 
That  which  had  a  particular  eff'ect  upon  Vyera, 
was  what  she  heard  a]K)ut  her  grandfather,  about 
that  mysterious  lAuhlnnfi'.  Is  it  not  from  liim 
that  she  inherits  her  faith  in  visions?  Strange! 
she  herself  is  so  pure  and  bright,  yet  she  is  afraid 

181 


ft 


FAUST  " 


of  everything  gloomy,  subterranean,  and  believes 
in  it.  .  .  . 

But  enough.  AVhy  write  all  this?  However, 
since  it  is  already  written,  I  '11  just  send  it  off 
to  thee.  Thine, 

P.  B. 

SEVENTH   LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  August  22. 

X  TAKE  up  my  pen  ten  days  after  the  date  of 
my  last  letter.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  friend,  I  can  no 
longer  dissimulate.  .  .  .  Plow  painful  it  is  to  me ! 
How  I  love  her!  Thou  canst  imagine  with  what 
a  bitter  shudder  I  write  this  fateful  word.  I  am 
no  boy,  not  even  a  stripling;  I  am  no  longer  at 
the  age  when  it  is  almost  impossible  to  deceive 
another  person,  while  it  costs  no  effort  at  all  to 
deceive  one's  self.  I  know  everything,  and  I  see 
clearlj^  I  know  that  I  am  close  on  forty  years  of 
age,  that  she  is  the  wife  of  another,  that  she  loves 
her  husband;  I  know  very  well  that  I  have  no- 
thing to  expect  from  the  unfortunate  sentiment 
which  has  taken  possession  of  me,  save  secret  tor- 
ments and  definitive  waste  of  my  vital  forces,  —  I 
know  all  tliis,  I  hope  for  nothing  and  I  desire 
nothing.  Eut  I  am  no  more  at  my  ease  for  all 
that. 

182 


FAUST 


>j 


A  month  ago  I  began  to  notice  that  my  at- 
tachment  for   her   was   becoming   stronger   and 
stronger.     That  partly  disconcerted  me,  partly 
delighted  me.  .  .  .  But  could  I  have  expected 
that  all  that  would  be  repeated  in  me  from  which, 
as  in  youth,  there  is  no  return?    But  what  am  I 
saying!      I   never   have   loved   thus,   no,   never! 
]Manon  Lescaut,  the  Fretillons— those  were  my 
idols.     It  is  easy  to  shatter  such  idols;  but  now 
....  and  only  now  have  I  learned  what  it  means 
to  love  a  woman.    I  am  ashamed  even  to  speak  of 
it;  but  so  it  is.     I   am  ashamed.  .  .  .  Love  is 
egoism,  nevertheless ;  but  at  my  age,  egoism  would 
be  unpardonable:  one  cannot  live  for  himself  at 
seven-and-thirtv ;  one  must  live  usef uUv,  with  the 
object  of  fulfilling  one's  duty,  doing  one's  busi- 
ness.   And  I  have  tried  to  set  to  work.  .  .  .  And 
lo,  everything  has  been  dissipated  again,  as  by  a 
hurricane!     Xow  I  understand  what  I  wrote  to 
thee  in  my  first  letter;  I  understand  what  trial  I 
lacked.     How  suddenly  this  blow  has  descended 
upon  my  head!     I  stand  and  gaze  irrationally 
ahead:  a  black  curtain  hangs  just  in  frojit  of  my 
eyes;  my  soul  aches  and  is  affrighted!     I  can  re- 
strain myself,  I  am  outwardly  calm,  not  only  in 
the  presence  of  others,  l)ut  even  when  I  am  alone; 
really,  I  cannot  go  into  a  rage,  like  a  boy!     But 
the  worm  has  crawled  into  my  heart,  and  is  gnaw- 
ing it  (lay  and  night.     How  is  tliis  thing  going  to 
end?    Ilitlierto  I  have  languished  and  been  agi- 

183 


"  FAUST  " 

tated  in  her  absence,  while  in  her  presence  I  have 
instantly  calmed  down.  .  .  .  Now  I  am  uneasy 
in  her  presence  — that  is  what  alarms  me.  Oh, 
my  friend,  how  painful  a  thing  it  is  to  be  ashamed 
of  one's  tears,  to  conceal  them!  ....  Only 
youth  is  permitted  to  weep;  tears  become  it 
alone.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  read  over  this  letter ;  it  has  burst  from 
me  like  a  groan.  I  can  add  nothing,  narrate  no- 
thing. .  .  .  Give  me  time:  I  shall  come  to  my- 
self. I  shall  regain  control  of  my  soul,  I  shall 
talk  with  thee  like  a  man,  but  now  I  should  like 
to  lean  my  head  on  thy  breast  and  .... 

O  jNIephistopheles!  Even  thou  wilt  not  help 
me !  I  have  intentionally  lingered  over,  I  have  in- 
tentionally irritated  the  ironical  vein  in  myself;  I 
have  reminded  mj^self  how  ridiculous  and  hypo- 
critical these  complaints,  these  effusions,  will  ap- 
pear to  me  a  year,  half  a  year  hence.  .  .  .  No, 
Mephistopheles  is  powerless,  and  his  teeth  have 

grown  blunt.  .  .  .  Farewell. 

Thine, 

P.  B. 


184 


"  FAUST  " 

EIGHTH   LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  ]M  .  .  .  .  oe,  September  8,  1850. 
3Iy  dear  friend,  Semyon  Xikolaitch  : 

Thou  hast  taken  my  last  letter  too  much  to 
heart.  Thou  knowest  how  much  inclined  I  have 
always  been  to  exaggerate  my  feelings;  I  do  it 
quite  involuntarih' :  a  feminine  nature!  That 
will  pass  off,  with  years,  it  is  true;  but  I  must 
admit,  with  a  sigh,  that  up  to  the  present  time, 
I  have  not  corrected  myself.  And,  therefore,  re- 
assure thyself.  I  will  not  deny  the  impression 
which  Vj'era  has  made  upon  me;  but,  neverthe- 
less, I  will  say:  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in 
all  that.  It  is  not  in  the  least  necessary  that  thou 
shouldst  come  hither,  as  thou  writest  that  thou 
art  intending  to  do.  To  gallop  more  than  a 
thousand  miles,  God  knows  for  what — why,  that 
would  be  madness!  But  I  am  very  grateful  to 
thee  for  this  new  proof  of  thy  friendship,  and, 
believe  me,  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Thy  journey 
hither  is  ill-judged  also  because  I  myself  intend 
soon  to  set  off  for  Petersburg.  Seated  on  thy 
divan,  I  will  relate  to  thee  many  things;  but  now, 
really,  I  do  not  feel  like  it:  the  first  thing  you 
know,  I  sliall  get  to  chattering  too  much,  and  be- 
come entangled  again.    I  will  write  to  thee  again 

185 


"  FAUST  " 

before  my  departure.  So  then,  farewell  until  we 
meet  shortly.  May  health  be  thine,  and  cheerful- 
ness, and  do  not  worr}^  too  much  over  the  fate  of 

—thine  sincerely, 

P.  B. 


NINTH   LETTER 

From  the  sarne  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  March  10,  1853. 
I  HAVE  not  answered  thy  letter  for  a  long  time; 
I  have  been  thinking  of  thee  all  these  days.  I 
have  felt  that  thou  wert  prompted  not  by  idle 
curiosity,  but  by  genuine  friendly  sympathy ;  but 
still  I  have  hesitated:  whether  I  ought  to  fol- 
low thy  advice,  whether  I  ought  to  comply  with 
thy  wish.  At  last  I  have  reached  a  decision;  I 
will  tell  thee  all.  Whether  my  confession  will 
relieve  me,  as  thou  assumest,  I  do  not  know;  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  remain  culpable  even 
if  ...  .  alas !  still  more  culpable  toward  that  un- 
forgettable, charming  spirit,  if  I  did  not  confide 
our  sad  secret  to  the  only  heart  which  I  still 
prize.  Thou  alone,  possibly,  on  earth  dost  re- 
member Vyera,  and  that  thou  shouldst  judge  of 
her  light-mindedly  and  falsely,  is  what  I  cannot 
permit.  Then  know  all!  Alas!  it  can  all  be  im- 
parted in  two  words;  that  which  existed  between 
us  flashed  for  a  moment,  like  the  lightning,  and, 

186 


"  FAUST  " 

like  the  lightning,  carried  death  and  destruction 
with  it.  .  .  . 

Since  her  death,  since  I  settled  down  in  this 
remote  nook,  which  I  shall  never  leave  again  to 
the  end  of  my  days,  more  than  two  years  have 
passed,  and  everything  is  as  clear  in  my  memory, 
my  wounds  are  still  as  fresh,  my  grief  is  as  bitter 
as  ever.  .  .  . 

I  will  not  complain.  Complaints,  by  irritating, 
alleviate  sorrow,  but  not  mine.  I  will  begin  my 
narration. 

Dost  thou  remember  my  last  letter — that  let- 
ter in  which  I  undertook  to  dissipate  thy  fears 
and  dissuade  thee  from  leaving  Petersburg? 
Thou  wert  suspicious  of  its  constrained  ease,  thou 
hadst  no  faith  that  we  should  soon  see  each  other : 
thou  wert  right.  On  the  eve  of  the  day  when  I 
wrote  to  thee,  I  had  learned  that  I  was  beloved. 

As  I  trace  these  words  I  discover  how  diffi- 
cult it  will  be  for  me  to  pursue  my  narration  to 
the  end.  The  importunate  thought  of  her  death 
will  torture  me  with  redoubled  force,  these  mem- 
ories will  sear  me.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  try  to  control 
myself,  and  I  will  either  discard  my  pen,  or  I 
will  not  utter  a  superfluous  word. 

This  is  how  I  learned  that  Vyera  loved  me. 
First  of  all,  I  must  tell  thee  (and  thou  wilt  be- 
lieve me) ,  that  up  to  that  day  I  positively  had  not 
had  a  suspicion.  She  had,  it  is  true,  begun  to  be 
pensive  at  times,  which  had  never  been  the  case 

187 


"  FAUST  " 

with  her  previously;  but  I  did  not  understand 
wliy  this  ha])pcned  to  her.  At  last,  one  day,  the 
seventh  of  September,— a  memorable  day  for  me, 
—  this  is  what  occurred.  Thou  knowest  how  I 
loved  her,  how  I  was  suffering.  I  wandered  like 
a  ghost,  I  could  find  no  place  of  rest.  I  tried 
to  remain  at  home,  but  could  not  endure  it,  and 
went  to  her.  I  found  her  alone  in  her  boudoir. 
PriimkofF  was  not  at  home:  he  had  gone  off 
hunting.  When  I  entered  Vyera's  room,  she 
looked  intently  at  me,  and  did  not  respond  to  my 
greeting.  She  was  sitting  by  the  window ;  on  her 
lap  lay  a  book:  it  was  my  "  Faust."  Her  face 
expressed  weariness.  She  requested  me  to  read 
aloud  the  scene  between  Faust  and  Gretchen, 
where  she  asks  him  whether  he  believes  in  God. 
I  took  the  book  and  began  to  read.  With  her 
head  leaning  against  the  back  of  her  chair, 
and  her  hands  clasped  on  her  breast,  she  contin- 
ued to  gaze  at  me  in  the  same  intent  manner  as 
before. 

I  do  not  know  why  my  heart  suddenly  began 
to  beat  violentty. 

f    "  What  have  you  done  to  me?  "—she  said  in  a 
lingering  voice. 

"  What?  "  —  I  ejaculated  in  confusion. 
"  Yes;  what  have  you  done  to  me?  "—she  re- 
peated. 
I      "Do   you   mean   to   ask,"— I   began:— "why 

/  have  I  persuaded  you  to  read  such  books?  " 

188 


"  FAUST  " 

She  rose  in  silence,  and  left  the  room.    I  stared 
after  her. 

On  the  threshold  she  halted  and  turned  toward 
me. 

"  I  love  you," — said  she:  —  "that  is  what  you 
have  done  to  me." 

The  blood  flew  to  my  head.  .  .  . 

"  I  love  you,  I  am  in  love  with  you," — repeated    j 

Vyera^ _— ■ 

^SJie  went  away,  and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 
i  will  not  describe  to  thee  what  went  on  in  me 
then.  I  remember  that  I  went  out  into  the  gar- 
den, made  mv  wav  into  its  thickets,  and  leaned 
against  a  tree.  How  long  I  stood  there  I  know 
not.  It  was  as  though  I  had  swooned ;  the  feeling 
of  bliss  surged  across  my  heart  in  a  billow,  from 
time  to  time.  .  .  .  Xo,  I  will  not  talk  about  that. 
Priimkoff's  voice  aroused  me  from  my  stupor; 
they  had  sent  to  tell  him  that  I  had  arrived.  He 
had  returned  from  the  cliase,  and  had  hunted  me 
up.  He  was  surprised  at  finding  me  in  the  gar- 
den alone,  without  a  hat,  and  he  led  me  to  the 
house.  "  ^ly  wife  is  in  the  drawing-room," — 
lie  said:  —  "  let  us  go  to  her."  Thou  canst  con- 
jecture with  what  emotions  I  crossed  the  thresh- 
old of  the  drawing-room.  Vyera  was  sitting  in 
one  corner,  at  her  embroidery-frame.  I  darted 
a  covert  glance  at  lier,  and  for  a  long  time  tliere- 
aftcr,  (lid  not  raise  my  eyes.  To  my  amazement, 
she  appeared  to  be  calm ;  there  was  no  tremor  per- 

180 


<( 


FAUST  " 


ceptible  in  what  she  said,  in  tlie  sound  of  her 
voice.  At  hist,  I  brought  myself  to  look  at  her. 
Our  glances  met.  .  .  .  She  blushed  almost  im- 
perceptibly, and  bent  over  her  canvas.  I  began 
to  watch  her.  She  seemed  perplexed,  somehow; 
a  cheerless  smile  now  and  then  flitted  across  her 
lips. 

Priimkoif  left  the  room.  She  suddenly  raised 
her  head  and  asked  me  in  quite  a  loud  tone : 

"  What  dost  thou  intend  to  do  now?  " 

I  was  disconcerted,  and  hastily,  in  a  dull  voice, 
I  replied  that  I  intended  to  fulfil  the  duty  of  an 
honourable  man — to  go  away,  "  because," — I 
added, — "  I  love  you,  Vyera  Nikolaevna,  as  you 
have,  probably,  long  since  perceived." 

"  I  must  have  a  talk  with  you," — said  she: — 
"  come  to-morrow  evening,  after  tea,  to  our  little 
house  .  .  .  you  know,  where  you  read  '  Faust.'  " 

She  said  this  so  distinctly  that  even  now  I  can- 
not understand  how  Priimkoif,  who  entered  the 
room  at  that  moment,  failed  to  hear  anything. 
Slowly,  with  painful  slowness  did  that  day  pass. 
Vyera  gazed  about  her  from  time  to  time,  with 
an  expression  as  though  she  were  asking  herself: 
"  Was  not  she  dreaming? "  And,  at  the  same 
time,  decision  was  written  on  her  countenance. 
While  I  ....  I  could  not  recover  my  compo- 
sure. Vj^era  loves  me!  These  words  gyrated 
incessantly  in  my  mind;  but  I  did  not  understand 
them, — I  understood  neither  myself  nor  her.     I 

190 


"  FAUST  " 

did  not  believe  in  such  unexpected,  such  soul-dis- 
turbing happiness;  with  an  effort  I  recalled  the 
past,  and  I  also  looked  and  talked  as  in  a 
dream.  .  .  . 

After  tea,  when  I  had  already  begun  to  medi- 
tate how  I  might  slip  unperceived  out  of  the 
Iiouse,  she  herself  suddenly  announced  that  she 
wished  to  take  a  stroll,  and  proposed  to  me  that 
I  should  accompany  her.  I  dared  not  begin  the 
conversation,  I  could  barelv  draw  mv  breath,  I 
waited  for  her  first  w^ord,  I  waited  for  an  ex- 
planation ;  but  she  maintained  silence.  In  silence 
we  reached  the  little  Chinese  house,  in  silence  we 
entered  it,  and  there — to  this  day  I  do  not  know, 
I  cannot  comprehend  how  it  came  about — but  we 
suddenly  found  ourselves  in  each  other's  arms. 
Some  invisible  force  dashed  me  to  her,  and  her  to 
me.  By  the  dying  light  of  day,  her  face,  with 
its  curls  tossed  back,  was  illuminated  for  a  mo- 
ment by  a  smile  of  self-forgetfulness  and  tender- 
ness, and  our  lips  melted  together  in  a  kiss.  .  .  . 

This  kiss  was  the  first  and  the  last. 

Vyera  suddenly  tore  herself  from  my  arms, 
and,  with  an  expression  of  horror  in  her  widely- 
opened  eyes,  staggered  back.  .  .  . 

"  Look  round,"— she  said  to  me  in  a  quivering 
voice:  — "  do  you  see  notliing?  " 

I  wheeled  swiftly  round. 

"  Xo,  nothing.    But  do  you  see  any  one?  '* 

"  I  don't  now,  but  I  did." 

191 


"  FAUST  " 

She  was  breatliiii'j;'  deeply  and  slowly. 

"Whom?     What?" 

"  ]My  mother," — she  said  slowly,  trembling  all 
over. 

I  also  shivered,  as  though  a  chill  had  seized  me. 
I  suddenly  felt  alarmed,  like  a  criminal.  And 
M'as  not  I  a  criminal  at  that  moment? 

"Enough!"— I  began.— "What  ails  you? 
Tell  me  rather  .  .  .  ." 

"No,  for  God's  sake,  no!"— she  interrupted, 
clutching  her  head.  —  "  This  is  madness.  ...  I 
shall  go  out  of  my  mind.  .  .  .  This  is  not  to  be 
trifled  with — this  is  death.  .  .  .  Farewell.  .  .  ." 

I  stretched  out  my  arms  toward  her. 

"  Stay  one  moment,  for  God's  sake," — I  cried 
in  an  involuntary  transport.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  say,  and  could  hardly  stand  on  my  feet. — 
"  For  God's  sake  ....  why,  this  is  cruel.  .  .  ." 

She  glanced  at  me. 

"  To-morrow,  to-morrow  evening," — she  said: 
— "  not  to-day,  I  beg  of  you.  .  .  .  Go  away  to-day 
....  Come  to-morrow  evening  to  the  wicket- 
gate  in  the  garden,  near  the  lake.  I  shall  be  there, 
I  will  come.  ...  I  swear  to  thee  that  I  will 
come,"  — she  added,  with  an  eiFort,  and  her  eyes 
flashed.  —  "  No  matter  who  may  seek  to  stop  me, 
I  swear  it!  I  will  tell  thee  all,  only  let  me  go 
to-day." 

And  before  I  could  utter  a  word,  she  vanished. 

192 


"  FAUST  " 

Shaken  to  the  very  foundations,  I  remained 
rooted  to  the  spot.  My  head  was  reehng.  A  feel- 
ing of  anguish  crept  through  the  mad  joy  which 
filled  my  being.  I  glanced  about  me.  The  cham- 
ber in  which  I  was  standing,  with  its  low  vault 
and  dark  walls,  seemed  horrible  to  me. 

I  went  out  and  betook  myself  with  hasty  steps 
to  the  house.  V^'era  was  waiting  for  me  on  the 
terrace;  she  went  into  the  house  as  soon  as  I  ap- 
proached, and  immediately  retired  to  her  bed- 
room. 

I  went  away. 

How  I  spent  that  night  and  tlie  following  day 
until  the  evening,  I  cannot  describe.  I  remem- 
ber only  that  I  lay  prone,  with  my  face  hidden 
in  my  hands,  recalling  her  smile  which  had  pre- 
ceded the  kiss,  and  whispering:  "  Here  she  is,  at 
last.  .  .  ." 

I  recalled  also  Madame  filtzoff' s  words,  which 
A^yera  had  re})eated  to  me.  She  had  said  to  lier 
one  day:  "  Thou  art  like  ice:  until  tliou  shalt  melt, 
thou  art  strong  as  a  rock,  but  when  thou  meltest, 
there  will  not  remain  a  trace  of  thee." 

And  here  is  another  thing  which  recurred  to 
my  memory :  Vyera  and  I  liad,  somehow,  got  into 
a  discussion  as  to  what  are  knowledge  and  talent. 

"  I  know  only  one  tiling,"  —  she  said:  —  "  how  to 
bold  my  peace  until  the  last  minute." 

1  had  understood  nothing  at  the  time. 

193 


"  FAUST  " 

"  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  her  fright?  "—I 
asked  myself.  ..."  Did  she  really  see  Madame 
Eltzoft'?  Imagination!  "—I  thought,  and  again 
surrendered  myself  to  the  emotions  of  anticipa- 
tion. 

That  same  day  I  wrote  to  thee— with  what 
thoughts  I  shudder  to  recall— that  artful  letter. 

In  the  evening,  before  the  sun  had  set,  I  was 
standing  at  a  distance  of  fifty  paces  from  the 
garden  gate,  in  a  tall,  thick  mass  of  vines,  on  the 
shore  of  the  lake.  I  had  come  from  home  on  foot. 
I  confess  it,  to  my  shame:  terror,  the  most  pusil- 
lanimous terror  filled  my  breast,  I  kept  trembling 
incessantly  ....  but  I  felt  no  remorse.  Con- 
cealing myself  among  the  branches,  I  stared  fix- 
edly at  the  gate.  It  did  not  open.  The  sun  set, 
darkness  descended:  the  stars  had  already  come 
out,  and  the  sky  had  grown  black.  No  one  ap- 
peared. Fever  seized  upon  me.  Night  came. 
I  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  cautiously  emerg- 
ing from  the  vines,  I  crept  up  to  the  gate.  Every- 
thing was  quiet  in  the  garden.  I  called  Vyera 
in  a  whisper,  I  called  a  second  time,  a  third.  .  .  . 
No  voice  responded.  Another  half  hour,  an  hour 
elapsed ;  it  had  grown  perfectly  dark.  Anticipa- 
tion had  exhausted  me ;  I  pulled  the  gate  toward 
me,  opened  it  at  one  movement  and  directed  my 
way  on  tiptoe,  like  a  thief,  toward  the  house.  I 
halted  in  the  shadow  of  the  lindens. 

Almost  all   the   windows  in   the   house   were 

194 


FAUST 


>> 


lighted:  people  were  moving  to  and  fro  in  the 
rooms.  This  astonished  me:  my  watch,  so  far  as 
I  could  make  out  by  the  dim  light  of  the  stars, 
indicated  half -past  eleven.  Suddenly  a  rumbling 
resounded  on  the  other  side  of  the  house:  an 
equipage  had  driven  into  the  courtyard. 

"Evidently,  there  are  visitors," — I  thought. 
Abandoning  all  hope  of  seeing  Vyera,  I  made  my 
way  out  of  the  garden,  and  strode  homeward  with 
hasty  steps.  It  was  a  dark  September  night, 
warm  but  starless.  A  feeling  not  so  much  of  vex- 
ation as  of  grief,  which  was  on  the  point  of  tak- 
ing possession  of  me,  was  dissipated  to  a  certain 
degree,  and  I  arrived  at  my  own  house  somewhat 
fatigued  from  my  brisk  walk,  but  soothed  by  the 
tranquillity  of  the  night,  happy  and  almost  merry. 
I  entered  my  bedroom,  dismissed  Timofyei,  threw 
myself  on  the  bed  without  undressing,  and 
plunged  into  reverie. 

At  first  my  musings  were  cheerful ;  but  I  speed- 
ily noticed  a  strange  change  in  myself.  I  began 
to  feel  a  sort  of  mysterious,  gnawing  grief,  a  sort 
of  profound,  inward  uneasiness.  I  could  not  un- 
derstand whence  it  proceeded;  but  I  became 
alarmed,  and  oppressed,  as  though  an  impending 
misfortune  were  menacing  me,  as  though  some 
one  dear  to  me  were  suffering  at  that  moment, 
and  were  appealing  to  me  for  helj).  On  the  table 
a  wax  taper  was  burning  with  a  small,  motionless 
flame,  the   penduhim  of  the  clock  was  ticking 


"  FAUST  " 

heavily  and  regularly.  I  leaned  my  head  on  my 
hand,  and  sat  to  staring  into  the  empty,  semi- 
darkness  of  my  solitary  chamber.  I  thought  of 
Vyera,  and  my  soid  ached  within  me :  everything 
in  which  I  had  delighted  appeared  to  me  in  its 
proper  light,  as  a  calamity,  as  ruin  from  which 
there  was  no  escape.  The  feehng  of  anguish  kept 
augmenting  within  me;  I  could  no  longer  lie 
down ;  again  it  suddenly  seemed  to  me  as  though 
some  one  were  calling  me  with  an  appealing  voice. 
....  I  raised  my  head  and  shuddered.  I  was  not 
mistaken:  a  wailing  shriek  swept  from  afar,  and 
clung,  faintly  quivering,  to  the  window-panes. 
I  was  terrified :  I  sprang  from  the  bed,  and  threw 
open  the  window.  A  plainly-audible  groan  burst 
into  the  room,  and  seemed  to  hover  over  me.  It 
seemed  as  though  some  one's  throat  were  being 
cut  at  a  distance,  and  the  unhappy  person  were 
entreating,  in  vain,  for  mercy.  I  did  not  stop, 
at  the  time,  to  consider  whether  it  might  not  be 
an  owl  hooting  in  the  grove,  or  whether  some 
other  creature  had  emitted  that  groan,  but  as  Ma- 
zeppa  answered  Kotchubey,  I  replied  wdth  a 
shriek  to  that  sound  of  ill-omen. 

"  Vyera,  Vyera!  "  —  I  cried:  — "  is  it  thou  who 
art  calling  me?" — Timofyei,  sleepy  and  dumb- 
founded, appeared  before  me. 

I  came  to  my  senses,  drank  a  glass  of  water, 
and  went  into  another  room;  but  sleep  did  not 
visit  me.    My  heart  beat  painfully,  although  not 

19G 


"  FAUST  " 

trequently.  I  could  no  longer  give  myself  up  tc 
dreams,  to  happiness.  I  no  longer  dared  to  be- 
lieve in  it. 

On  the  following  day,  before  dinner,  I  set  off 
to  see  PriimkofF.  He  greeted  me  with  a  care- 
worn face. 

"  My  wife  is  ill," — he  began: — "  she  is  in  bed. 
I  have  sent  for  the  doctor." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her?  " 

"  I  don't  understand.  Yesteixlay  evening  she 
started  to  go  into  the  garden,  but  suddenly  came 
back,  beside  herself,  thoroughly  frightened.  Her 
maid  ran  for  me.  I  came,  and  asked  my  wufe, 
'  What  ails  thee  ? '  She  made  no  reply,  and  in- 
stantly took  to  her  bed ;  during  the  night,  delirium 
set  in.  God  knows  what  she  said  in  her  delirium; 
she  mentioned  you.  The  maid  told  me  an  aston- 
ishing thing:  it  seems  that  Vyerotchka  saw  her 
dead  mother  in  the  garden ;  her  mother  seemed  to 
be  coming  toward  her  with  open  arms." 

Thou  canst  imagine  my  sensations  at  these 
words ! 

"  Of  course,  it  is  nonsense,"  — pursued  Priim- 
kofF:— "  ])ut  I  must  confess  that  remarkable 
things  have  liappened  to  my  wife  in  that  line." 

"  And  is  Vyera  Xikolaevna  very  ill,  i^ray  tell 
me? 

"  Yes,  very;  she  was  very  bad  during  the  night; 
now  she  is  unconscious." 

"  But  what  did  the  doctor  say? 

197 


j» 


"  FAUST  " 

"  He  said  that  the  malady  had  not  yet  declared 
itself.  .  .  ." 

March  12. 
I  CANNOT  continue  as  I  have  hegun,  my  dear 
friend:  it  costs  me  too  much  effort  and  irritates 
my  wounds  too  greatly.  The  malady  declared  it- 
self, to  use  the  doctor's  words,  and  Vyera  died  of 
it.  She  did  not  survive  a  fortnight  after  that  fatal 
daj^  of  our  momentary  tryst.  I  saw  her  once  more 
before  her  end.  I  possess  no  more  cruel  memory. 
I  had  already  learned  from  the  doctor  that  there 
was  no  hope.  Late  at  night,  when  every  one  in 
the  house  was  in  bed,  I  crept  to  the  door  of  her 
chamber  and  looked  at  her.  Vyera  was  lying  in 
bed,  with  closed  eyes,  emaciated,  tiny,  with  the 
glow  of  fever  on  her  cheeks.  I  stared  at  her  as 
though  I  had  been  petrified.  Suddenly  she 
opened  her  eyes,  fixed  them  on  me,  took  a  closer 
look,  and  stretching  out  her  emaciated  hand — 

"What  does  he  want  on  that  holy  spot, 
That  man  .    .    .    that  man  yonder.    .    .    .  ''"'  ^ 

she  articulated  in  a  voice  so  terrible,  that  I  fled 
at  fidl  speed.  She  raved  of  "  Faust  "  almost  con- 
tinuously during  her  illness,  and  of  her  mother, 
whom  she  called  now  Martha,  now  Gretchen's 
mother. 

^  "  Was  will  er  an  dem  heiligen  Ort, 
Der  da  ....  der  dort.  .  .  ." 

"Faust,"  Part  I,  Last  Scene. 

198 


"  FAUST  " 

Vyera  died.  I  was  at  her  funeral.  Since  that 
day  I  have  abandoned  even-thinf^,  and  have  set- 
tled down  here  forever. 

Reflect  now  on  what  I  have  told  thee ;  think  of 
her,  of  that  being  who  perished  so  earh\  How 
this  came  about,  how  that  incomprehensible  inter- 
])osition  of  the  dead  in  the  affairs  of  the  living 
is  to  be  explained,  I  know  not,  and  I  shall  never 
know;  but  thou  must  agree  with  me  that  it  is  no 
fit  of  capricious  hypochondria,  as  thou  expressest 
it,  which  has  made  me  withdraw  from  society. 
All  this  time  I  have  thought  so  much  about  that 
unhappy  woman  (I  came  near  saying,  "young 
girl  "),  about  her  origin,  the  mysterious  play  of 
Fate  which  we,  blind  that  we  are,  designate  as 
])lind  chance.  Who  knows  how  much  seed  is  left 
by  each  person  who  lives  on  the  earth,  which  is 
destined  to  spring  up  only  after  his  death?  AVho 
can  say  to  what  mysterious  end  the  fate  of  a  man 
is  bound  up  with  the  fate  of  his  cliildren,  his  jdos- 
terity,  and  how  his  aspirations  will  be  reflected  in 
them,  his  mistakes  visited  on  them  ?  We  must  all 
submit  and  bow  our  heads  before  the  Unknow- 
able. 

Yes,  Vyera  perished,  and  I  liave  remained 
whole.  I  remember,. when  I  was  stiU  a  chihl,  tliere 
was  in  our  liouse  a  beautiful  vase  of  transparent 
ahil)aster.  Not  a  fleck  suUicd  its  virgin  whiteness. 
One  day,  when  I  was  left  alone,  I  began  to  rock 
the  pedestal  on  which  it  stood  ....  The  vase 

199 


"  FAUST  " 

suddenly  fell  to  the  floor,  and  was  shattered  to 
atoms.  I  nearly  swooned  with  fright,  and  stood 
motionless  before  the  fragments.  JNIy  father  en- 
tered the  room,  saw  me,  and  said:  "  Just  see  what 
thou  hast  done !  We  shall  never  have  our  beautiful 
vase  again;  there  is  no  way  to  mend  it  now."  I 
burst  out  sobbing.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
committed  a  crime. 

I  have  become  a  man — and  have  heedlessly 
shattered  a  vessel  which  was  a  thousand  times 
more  precious.  .  .  . 

In  vain  do  I  tell  myself  that  I  could  not  have 
anticipated  this  instantaneous  catastrophe,  that  it 
startled  even  me  by  its  unexpectedness,  that  I  had 
no  suspicion  as  to  the  sort  of  woman  Vyera  was. 
She  realty  did  know  how  to  hold  her  peace  to  the 
last  minute.  I  ought  to  have  fled  as  soon  as  I  felt 
that  I  loved  her, — loved  a  married  woman;  but  I 
remained,  —  and  have  shattered  in  fragments  a 
very  beautiful  creature,  and  with  dumb  despair 
I  now  gaze  upon  the  work  of  my  hands. 

Yes;  Madame  KltzofF  jealously  guarded  her 
daughter.  She  guarded  her  to  the  end,  and  at  her 
first  unwaiy  step,  she  bore  her  off  with  her  into 
the  tomb. 

It  is  time  for  me  to  make  an  end.  ...  I  have 
not  told  thee  the  hundredth  part  of  what  I  should : 
but  this  has  been  quite  enough  for  me.  Let  every- 
thing which  has  flashed  up  in  my  soul  sink  once 
more  into  its  depths.  ...  In  ending,  I  will  tell 

200 


"  FAUST  " 

thee:  I  have  brought  one  conviction  out  of  the 
experiences  of  the  recent  years;  hfe  is  not  even 
enjoyment,  ....  hfe  is  a  heavy  toil.  Renun- 
ciation, constant  renunciation, — that  is  its  secret 
meaning,  its  solution;  not  the  fulfilment  of  cher- 
ished ideas  and  dreams,  no  matter  how  lof tv  thev 
may  be,  —  but  the  fulfilment  of  duty, — that  is 
what  man  must  take  heed  to;  not  uidess  he  im- 
poses upon  himself  chains,  the  iron  chains  of  duty, 
can  he  attain  to  the  end  of  his  course  without 
falling;  but  in  youth  we  think:  "  The  freer  the 
better;  the  further  one  can  go."  It  is  permissible 
for  youth  to  think  thus;  but  it  is  disgraceful  to 
console  one's  self  with  an  illusion,  when  the  stern 
face  of  the  truth  has  at  last  looked  thee  full  in  the 
eye. 

Farewell!  Formerly  I  would  have  added:  "  Be 
happy."  Now  I  say  to  thee:  Endeavour  to  live, 
it  is  not  as  easy  as  it  seems.  Remember  me,  not  in 
hours  of  sadness,  but  in  hours  of  thoughtfulness, 
and  preserve  in  thy  soul  the  image  of  Vyera  in 
all  its  unsullied  purit}'.  .  .  .  Once  more,  fare- 
well! Thine, 

P.  B. 


201 


AN  EXCURSION  TO  THE 
FOREST  BELT 

(1857) 


AN  EXCURSION  TO  THE 
FOREST  BELT^ 

THE    FIRST   DAY 

THE  aspect  of  the  huge  pine  woods  which  em- 
brace the  whole  horizon,  the  aspect  of  the 
"  Forest  Belt,"  reminds  one  of  the  aspect  of  the 
sea.  And  the  impressions  evoked  by  both  are  the 
same:  the  same  primeval,  untouched  strength  lies 
in  vast  and  regal  expanse  before  the  spectator. 
From  the  bosom  of  the  eternal  forests,  from  the 
deathless  lap  of  the  waters  the  selfsame  voice 
arises:  "  I  care  nothing  for  thee,"  — Xature  says 
to  man:  — "  I  reign,  but  do  thou  bestir  thyself  as 
to  the  means  of  escaping  death."  But  the  forest 
is  more  monotonous  and  melancholy  than  the  sea, 
especiall}'  a  pine  forest,  which  is  forever  the  same, 
and  almost  noiseless.  The  sea  menaces  and  ca- 
resses, it  has  a  shifting  ))lay  of  all  lines,  it  speaks 
with  all  voices;  it  reflects  the  sky,  whicli  also  ex- 
hales eternity,  but  an  eternity  which  does  not  seem 
alien  to  us.  .  .  .  The  unchanging,  gloomy  pine 
forest  maintains  a  surly  silence,  or  roars  (hdly,— 
and  at  the  siglit  of  it  the  consciousness  of  our  in- 

'  A  district  in  southwest  Kussiu— Translator. 

205 


AN  EXCURSION 

significance  penetrates  still  more  deeply  and  irre- 
sistibly into  the  heart  of  man. 

It  is  difficult  for  a  man,  the  creature  of  a  single 
day,  yesterday  born  and  to-day  doomed  to  death, 
—  it  is  difficult  for  him  to  endure  the  cold  gaze  of 
the  eternal  Isis  riveted  impassibly  upon  him;  not 
his  bold  hopes  and  dreams  alone  quiet  down  and 
become  extinguished  within  him,  encompassed  by 
the  icy  breath  of  the  elements;  no — his  whole  soul 
chirps  feebly  and  expires;  and  he  feels  that  the 
last  of  his  fellows  may  vanish  from  the  face  of 
the  earth — and  not  a  single  needle  on  those 
branches  will  quiver;  he  feels  his  isolation,  his  im- 
potence, his  fortuitousness  and  with  hurried, 
secret  terror  he  turns  his  attention  to  the  petty 
cares  and  toils  of  life;  he  is  more  at  his  ease  in 
that  world,  created  by  himself;  there  he  is  at  home, 
there  he  still  dares  to  believe  in  his  own  impor- 
tance, in  his  own  power. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  which  occurred  to  me 
several  years  ago,  when,  as  I  stood  on  the  porch 
of  a  tiny  posting-station,  erected  on  the  bank  of 
the  marshy  little  Reseta,  I  beheld  the  Forest  Belt 
for  the  first  time.  The  blue  masses  of  the  ever- 
green forest  retreated  in  front  of  me  in  long, 
serried  ranks  of  terraces;  here  and  there,  small 
birch  groves  glimmered  only  as  green  spots;  the 
entire  field  of  vision  was  encompassed  by  the  pine 
forest;  no  church  gleamed  white,  no  fields  shone 
light  in  any  direction — there  was  nothing  but 

206 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

trees,  trees,  nothing  but  jagged  crests;  and  a  thin, 
dull  mist,  the  eternal  mist  of  the  Forest  Belt,  hung 
high  above  them.  It  was  not  indolence,  that  im- 
passivity of  life,  no — it  was  absence  of  life,  some- 
thing dead,  though  majestic,  which  breathed 
forth  upon  me  from  all  points  of  the  horizon.  I 
remember  that  huge,  white  clouds  sailed  past, 
softly,  and  high  in  air,  and  the  hot  summer  day 
lay  motionless  and  silent  on  the  earth.  The  red- 
dish water  of  the  little  stream  slipped  by  without 
a  plash  between  the  dense  growth  of  reeds ;  at  its 
bottom  round  hillocks  of  prickly  moss  were  dimly 
visible,  and  the  banks  now  disappeared  in  the 
swampy  ooze,  now  shone  forth  with  the  sharp 
whiteness  of  fine,  friable  sand.  Past  the  posting- 
station  itself  ran  the  well-beaten  county  highway. 
On  this  highway,  directly  opposite  the  porch, 
stood  a  peasant-cart,  laden  with  boxes  and  chests. 
Its  owner,  a  gaunt  petty  burgher,  with  a  hawk's- 
bill  nose  and  tiny,  mouse-like  eyes,  round-shoul- 
dered and  lame,  was  harnessing  to  it  his  wretched 
nag,  which  was  lame,  like  himself;  he  was  a  gin- 
gerbread pedlar,  who  was  on  his  way  to  the  Ka- 
ratchy(Sff  fair.  Several  persons  suddenly  made 
their  aj)pearance  on  the  threshold;  others  strag- 
gled after  them  ....  at  last,  a  whole  throng 
poured  forth;  all  of  them  had  staves  in  tlieir 
hands,  and  wallets  on  tlieir  l)acks.  From  their 
walk,  which  was  wearj'^  and  shambling,  from  tlieir 
sunl)iirned  faces,  it  was  evident  that  they  came 

207 


AN  EXCURSION 

from  afar:  they  were  day-labourers,  diggers,  who 
were  returning  from  a  trip  to  earn  money  by  har- 
vest labour.  An  old  man  of  seventy,  with  per- 
fectly white  hair,  seemed  to  be  acting  as  their 
leader;  he  turned  round  from  time  to  time,  and 
spurred  on  the  laggards  with  a  tranquil  voice. 
"  Come,  come,  come,  my  lads," — he  said, — 
"  co-ome  on."  They  all  advanced  in  silence,  in  a 
sort  of  impressive  tranquillity.  Only  one,  a  man 
of  low  stature,  and  with  an  angry  aspect,  in  a 
sheep-pelt  coat  open  on  the  breast,  and  a  sheep- 
skin cap,  pulled  down  over  his  very  eyes,  suddenly 
asked  the  gingerbread  pedlar,  as  he  came  on  a 
level  with  him : 

"  How  much  is  gingerbread,  fool?  " 

"  That  depends  on  the  sort  of  gingerbread, 
my  dear  man," — replied  the  astounded  dealer  in 
a  shrill  voice.  — "  I  have  some  for  a  kopek — while 
other  sorts  cost  two  kopeks.  But  hast  thou  two 
kopeks  in  thy  purse?  " 

"  I  guess  it  ferments  in  the  belly," — retorted 
the  man  in  the  sheepskin  coat,  and  strode  away 
from  the  cart. 

"Hurry  up,  my  lads,  hurry  up!" — the  old 
man's  voice  made  itself  heard:  —  "  It  is  a  long  way 
to  our  halting-place  for  the  night." 

"  A  rough  lot,"  — said  the  gingerbread  pedlar, 
darting  a  sidelong  glance  at  me,  as  soon  as  the 
whole  throng  had  straggled  past  him;  "is  that 
the  food  for  them  ?  " 

208 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

And  harnessing  his  nag  with  all  sjDeed,  he  drove 
down  to  the  river,  on  which  a  small  ferry-boat  of 
planks  was  visible.  A  peasant  in  a  white  felt 
"  shlyk  "  (the  tall,  pointed  cap  usual  in  the  Forest 
Belt) ,  emerged  from  a  low  earth-hut  to  meet  him, 
and  ferried  him  over  to  the  opposite  shore.  The 
cart  crawled  along  the  rutted  and  gullied  road, 
now  and  then  emitting  a  squeak  from  one  of  the 
wheels. 

I  fed  my  horses  and  crossed  the  stream  also. 
After  crawling  along  for  about  two  versts  ^ 
through  a  swampy  meadow,  I  drove,  at  last,  on 
to  a  narrow  dam  at  a  clearing  in  the  forest.  jNIy 
tarantas  jolted  unevenly  over  the  round  logs;  I 
alighted  and  went  on  foot.  The  horses  advanced 
at  an  energetic  pace,  snorting  and  tossing  their 
heads  to  rid  themselves  of  the  gnats  and  small 
flies.  The  Forest  Belt  had  received  us  into  its 
bosom.  At  its  border,  nearest  to  the  meadow, 
grew  birches,  aspens,  lindens,  maples,  and  oaks; 
then  these  began  to  occur  more  rarely,  the  thick 
fir  woods  moved  up  in  a  dense  wall ;  further  awaj^ 
the  bare  trunks  of  a  pine  wood  shone  red,  and 
then  again  a  mixed  forest  stretched  out,  over- 
grown below  with  liazel-bushes,  bird-cherry, 
mountain-ash,  and  large,  juicy  grass.  The  sun's 
ravs  brilliantlv  illuminated  tlie  crests  of  the  trees, 
and,  sifting  over  the  branches,  oidy  here  and  tliere 
reached  the  ground  in  ])ale  streaks  and  })atches 

*  A  verst  Is  two-thirds  of  a  mile.  — Traxslatob. 

209 


AN  EXCURSION 

Hardly  any  birds  were  to  be  beard— they  are  not 
fond  of  tlie  great  forests;  only  the  mournfnl, 
thrice-rei)eated  cry  of  a  hoopoe,  and  the  angry 
scream  of  a  nut-bird,  or  a  jay  rang  out  from  time 
to  time;  a  reticent,  always  solitary  rook  flew  across 
the  clearing,  the  golden-blue  of  its  beautiful  fea- 
thers gleaming  brightly.  Sometimes  the  trees 
thinned  out,  stood  further  apart,  there  was  more 
light  ahead,  the  tarantas  came  out  on  a  clear, 
sandy  glade;  sparse  rye  grew  thereon  in  beds, 
noiselessly  waving  its  pale  little  ears;  on  one  side 
a  small,  ancient  chapel  stood  out  darkly  with  its 
sagging  cross  above  a  well;  an  invisible  brook 
babbled  peaceably,  with  varying  and  resonant 
sounds,  as  though  it  were  flowing  into  an  empty 
bottle;  and  then,  suddenl}^  the  road  was  barred 
by  a  recently-fallen  birch-tree,  and  the  forest 
stood  round  about,  so  aged,  so  lofty,  so  dreamy, 
that  even  the  air  seemed  stifling.  In  places  the 
clearing  was  all  inundated  with  water;  on  both 
sides  extended  a  forest  morass,  all  green  and  dark, 
all  covered  with  reeds  and  a  growth  of  young  al- 
der-bushes; ducks  kept  flying  upward  in  pairs — 
and  strange  it  was  to  see  these  water-fowl  flitting 
swiftly  between  the  pines.—"  Ga,  ga,  ga,  ga,"  a 
prolonged  cry  suddenly  arose;  it  was  a  shepherd 
driving  his  flock  through  the  smaller  growth  of 
trees;  a  dark-brown  cow  with  short,  sharp  horns 
butted  her  way  noisily  through  the  bushes,  with 
her  big,  dark  eyes  riveted  on  the  hound  which  was 

210 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

running  on  in  front  of  me ;  a  gentle  breeze  wafted 
to  me  the  delicate  yet  strong  odour  of  burnt  wood ; 
a  tin}^  wreath  of  white  smoke  crawled  up  and 
down  far  awav  in  circular  streams  aoainst  the 
pale-blue  forest  air;  evidently,  some  peasant  fur- 
nished charcoal  to  the  glass-works  or  a  factory. 
The  further  we  advanced  the  more  dull  and  quiet 
did  it  grow  around  us.  It  is  always  silent  in  a 
pine  forest,  only  far  away,  high  overhead,  a  sort 
of  long  murmur  and  suppressed  roar  passes 
through  the  branches.  .  .  .  One  drives  on  and  on, 
that  everlasting  murmur  of  the  forest  never 
ceases,  and  his  heart  gradually  begins  to  ache,  and 
he  wants  to  get  out  as  sj^eedily  as  possible,  into  a 
spacious  place,  into  the  light;  he  wants  to  inhale 
with  full  lungs — and  that  fragrant  dampness  and 
rotting  opjjress  his  breast.  .  .  . 

We  drove  for  fifteen  versts  at  a  foot-pace,  now 
and  then  breaking  into  a  trot.  I  wanted  to  reach 
the  village  of  Svyatoe,  which  lay  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  forest,  by  daylight.  Twice  we  encount- 
ered peasants  with  long  logs,  or  linden-bark, 
which  they  had  stripped  from  the  trees,  in  their 
carts. 

"  Is  it  far  to  Svyatoe?  "  —  I  inquired  of  one  of 
them. 

"  Xo,  not  far." 

"  Plow  far?  " 

"  Why,  it  must  be  about  tliree  versts." 

An  hour  and  a  half  passed.     W'e  were  still 

211 


AX  EXCURSION 

driving'  on  and  on.  Now  again  a  loaded  cart 
creaked.    A  peasant  was  walking  beside  it. 

"  How  much  further  is  it  to  Svyatoe,  brother?  " 

"What?" 

"  How  far  it  is  to  Svyatoe?  " 

"  Eight  versts." 

The  sun  had  already  set  when,  at  last,  I 
emerged  from  the  forest  and  beheld  before  me  a 
small  village.  About  twenty  homesteads  clung 
closely  around  an  ancient  church,  with  a  single, 
green  dome,  and  tiny  windows,  wliich  gleamed 
crimson  in  the  evening  glow.  It  was  Svyatoe. 
I  drove  into  the  enclosure.^  The  herd  on  its  home- 
ward way  overtook  my  tarantas,  and  ran  past, 
lowing,  grunting,  and  bleating.  The  young  girls 
and  care-worn  housewives  welcomed  their  beasts; 
tow-headed  little  urchins  chased  the  unruly  suck- 
ing pigs  with  merry  shouts;  the  dust  whirled 
along  the  streets,  in  light  clouds,  and  turned  crim- 
son as  it  rose  higher  in  the  air. 

I  stopped  at  the  house  of  the  Elder,  a  crafty 
and  intelligent  "  forest-dweller,"  one  of  those 
concerning  whom  it  is  said  that  they  can  see 
what  is  going  on  two  yards  under  the  ground. 
Early  on  the  following  day,  I  set  off,  in  a  light 
cart,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  pot-bellied  horses  be- 
longing to  the  peasants,  with  the  Elder's  son,  and 
another  young  peasant,  named  Egor,  on  a  hunt 

^  Russian  vilLafces  are  enclosed  with  a  hedge,  a  fence, 
or  wattled  branches.— Translatok. 

212 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

for  moor-cock  and  hazel-hens.  The  forest  stood 
in  a  dense-blue  ring  along  the  entire  rim  of  the 
sky — the  cultivated  fields  around  Svyatoe  were 
reckoned  at  two  hundred  desyatinas/  no  more; 
but  we  were  obliged  to  drive  for  seven  versts 
to  reach  the  good  places.  The  Elder's  son  was 
named  Kondrat.  He  was  a  chestnut-haired,  red- 
cheeked  young  lad,  with  a  kindly  and  pacific  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  obliging  and  loquacious. 
He  drove  the  horses.  Egor  sat  beside  me.  I 
wisli  to  say  a  couple  of  words  concerning  him. 

He  was  considered  the  best  hunter  in  the  entire 
county.  He  had  traversed  all  the  localities  for 
fiftv  versts  round  about,  in  their  entire  length 
and  breadth.  He  rarely  fired  at  a  bird,  because 
of  scarcity  of  powder  and  shot ;  but  it  v\'as  enough 
for  him  that  he  had  lured  up  a  hazel-hen,  and  had 
noted  the  crest  of  a  wood-snipe.  Egor  bore  the 
re])utation  of  being  an  upright  man  and  a  "  close- 
moutlied  fellow."  He  was  not  fond  of  talking, 
and  never  exaggerated  the  number  of  the  game 
lie  had  found  — a  rare  trait  in  a  liunter.  He  was 
of  medium  height,  and  gaunt;  and  had  a  pale, 
elongated  face  and  large,  lionest  eyes.  All  his 
features,  especially  liis  lips,  were  regular,  and 
were  permanently  impassive;  tliey  breatlied  forth 
imperturbable  composure.  He  smiled  slightly, 
and  inwardly,  as  it  were,  when  he  uttered  his 
words,  and  that  quiet  smile  was  very  cliarming. 

1  A  desyatina  is  equal  to  2.70  acres,  —  Tn a nslator. 

213 


AN  EXCURSION 

He  (lid  not  drink  li(]iior,  and  worked  industri- 
ously, but  had  no  luck:  liis  wife  was  constantly 
ailing',  his  children  died  one  after  the  other;  he 
had  been  "  reduced  to  poverty, "  and  was  abso- 
lutely unable  to  get  on  his  feet  again.  And  it 
must  be  said,  that  a  passion  for  hunting  is  not 
befitting  a  peasant,  and  he  who  "  indulges  him- 
self with  a  gun  "  is  a  bad  farmer. 

Whether  it  arose  from  dwelling  constantly  in 
the  forest,  face  to  face  with  the  mournful  and 
rigorous  nature  of  that  unpopulated  region,  or 
in  consequence  of  a  special  turn  and  type  of  mind, 
at  any  rate,  a  certain  modest  dignity,  precisely 
that,  dignity  and  not  thoughtfulness,— the  dig- 
nity of  a  stately  deer,— w^as  perceptible  in  all 
Egor's  movements.  In  the  course  of  his  career, 
he  had  killed  seven  bears,  after  having  laid  in 
wait  for  them  in  the  fields  of  oats.  It  was  only 
on  the  fourth  night  that  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
fire  on  the  last:  the  bear  persisted  in  not  standing 
sideways  to  him,  and  he  had  but  one  bullet. 
Egor  had  killed  him  just  before  my  arrival. 
When  Kondrat  conducted  me  to  him,  I  found 
him  in  his  little  back  yard:  squatted  on  his  heels  in 
front  of  the  huge  beast,  he  was  cutting  out  the 
fat  with  a  short,  dull  knife. 

"What  a  fine  fellow  thou  hast  laid  low!"— 
I  remarked. 

Egor  raised  his  head  and  gazed  first  at  me,  then 
at  the  hound  which  had  come  with  me- 

214 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

"  If  you  have  come  to  hunt,  there  are  moor- 
cock at  ]M6shnoe — three  broods  of  them,  and  five 
of  hazel-hens,"  —  he  said,  and  turned  again  to  his 
task. 

It  was  with  this  Egor  and  with  Kondrat  that  I 
set  off  on  the  following  day  on  my  hunting  expe- 
dition. We  drove  briskly  across  the  glade  which 
surrounded  Svyatoe,  but  on  entering  the  forest, 
dragged  along  again  at  a  walk. 

"  Yonder  sits  a  wood-pigeon,"  said  Kondrat, 
suddenly  turning  to  me:  — "  't  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  knock  it  over." 

Egor  glanced  in  the  direction  whither  Kondrat 
was  pointing,  and  said  nothing.  It  was  a  distance 
of  over  one  hundred  paces  to  the  wood-pigeon, 
and  one  cannot  kill  it  at  forty  paces,  such  is  the 
firmness  of  its  feathers. 

The  loquacious  Kondrat  made  a  few  more  re- 
marks ;  but  not  without  effect  did  the  forest  still- 
ness embrace  him  also:  he  fell  silent.  Only  now 
and  then  exchanging  words,  but  keeping  our  eyes 
fixed  ahead,  and  listening  to  the  panting  and 
snorting  of  the  horses,  we  finally  reached  "  Mo- 
shnoe."  ^  This  appellation  was  applied  to  a 
mighty  pine  forest,  with  a  sprinkling  of  spruce- 
trees  here  and  there.  We  alighted.  Kondrat 
pushed  the  cart  into  the  bushes,  so  that  the  mos- 
quitoes might  not  bite  the  horses.  Egor  inspected 
tlie  trigger  of  his  gun,  and  crossed  liimself :  he 

•  An  adjcrtive  nieaninfif  mighty.  — Thansi.atob. 

2 1 .5 


AN  EXCl  KSION 

never  began  anything  without  the  sign  of  the 
cross. 

Tlie  forest  which  we  had  entered  was  extremely 
aged.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  Tatars  roved 
therein,'  but  the  Russian  bandits  and  the  Lithu- 
anians of  the  Troublous  Time  ^  certainly  might 
have  concealed  themselves  in  its  remote  fastnesses. 
At  a  respectful  distance  from  one  another  rose 
the  mighty  pines  with  huge,  slightly-gnarled 
trunks  of  a  pale-yellow  hue;  between  them,  drawn 
up  in  military  array,  stood  others,  of  lesser 
growth.  Greenish  moss,  all  besprinkled  with 
dead  pine-needles,  covered  the  ground;  the  bog- 
bilberry  grew  in  dense  bushes;  the  strong  odour 
of  its  berries,  resembling  the  perfume  of  musk, 
oppressed  the  breath.  The  sun  could  not  pene- 
trate through  the  lofty  canopy  of  the  pine- 
branches;  but  it  was  stifling  hot  and  not  dark 
in  the  forest,  nevertheless;  like  huge  drops  of 
sweat,  the  heavy,  transparent  pitch  oozed  out 
and  quietly  trickled  down  the  coarse  bark  of  the 
trees.  The  motionless  air,  devoid  of  shadow 
and  devoid  of  light,  burned  the  face.  All  was 
silent;  even  our  footsteps  were  not  audible.  We 
trod  on  the  moss,  as  on  a  carpet;  Egor,  in  particu- 
lar, moved  noiselessly,  as  though  he  had  been  a 
shadow;    beneath    his    feet    not   even    the    dead 

1  During  the  period  of  the  "  Tat^r  Yoke,"  in   the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries.  — TnANSi.ATou. 

2  In  the  beginning?  of  the  seventeenth  century,  which  ended  in  the 
election  of  the  first  Romanoff  Tzar.— Traxslator. 

216 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

branches  crackled.  He  walked  M'ithout  haste, 
now  and  then  blowing  his  decoy-whistle ;  a  hazel- 
hen  soon  answered,  and  before  mv  very  eyes  dived 
into  a  thick  spruce-tree;  but  in  vain  did  Egor 
point  it  out  to  me:  strain  my  vision  as  I  would, 
I  could  not  possibly  descry  it;  Egor  was  com- 
pelled to  fire  at  it.  We  also  found  two  coveys 
of  moor-cocks;  the  cautious  birds  rose  far  away, 
with  a  heavy,  sharp  clatter;  but  we  succeeded  in 
shooting  three  young  ones. 

At  one  maiddn,^  Egor  suddenly  came  to  a  halt 
and  called  to  me.  "  A  bear  has  been  trying  to 
get  water," — he  said,  pointing  at  a  broad,  fresh 
scratch  in  the  very  centre  of  the  pit,  lined  with 
fine  moss. 

"  Is  that  a  trace  of  his  paws?  "  —  I  inquired. 

"  Yes ;  but  the  water  had  dried  up.  He  has 
left  his  traces  on  that  pine-tree  also;  he  climbed 
it  for  honey.  He  has  cut  it  with  liis  claws  as  with 
a  knife." 

We  continued  to  make  our  way  into  tlie  ver}^ 
densest  part  of  the  forest.  Egor  only  rarely  cast 
a  glance  upward,  and  walked  on  in  front  calmly 
and  confidently.  I  espied  a  tall,  circular  em- 
bankment, surrounded  by  a  trench  half-filled  with 
earth. 

"  What  is  that,  — a  tar-pit  also?"— I  asked. 

"  Xo,"  — replied  Egor:  — "  a  fortress  of  brig- 
ands used  to  stand  here." 

'  A  place  where  tar  is  distilled  is  called  a  mniddn. 

217 


AN  EXCURSION 

"  Long  ago? " 

"  Yes,  long  ago;  beyond  the  memories  of  our 
grandfatliers.  And  a  treasure  is  buried  here,  too. 
But  a  strong  nialc(hetion  is  placed  upon  it;  an 
oath  sworn  on  human  blood." 

We  proceeded  about  a  couple  of  versts  further. 
I  was  thirsty. 

"  Sit  down  a  bit," — said  Egor:  —  "  I  will  go  for 
water;  there  is  a  spring  hard  by." 

He  departed;  I  remained  alone. 

I  seated  myself  on  the  stump  of  a  felled  tree, 
propped  my  elbow  on  my  knees,  and  after  a  long 
silence,  slowly  raised  my  head  and  gazed  about 
me.  Oh,  how  quiet  and  grimly-melancholy  was 
everything  around — no,  not  even  melancholy,  but 
dumb,  cold,  and  menacing  at  one  and  the  same 
time!  My  heart  contracted  within  me.  At  that 
moment,  on  that  spot,  I  became  conscious  of  the 
breath  of  death,  I  felt  it;  its  proximity  was  al- 
most tangible.  Not  a  single  sound  quivered,  not 
a  momentary  rustle  arose  in  the  motionless  jaws 
of  the  pine  forest  which  surrounded  me !  Again, 
almost  in  terror,  I  dropped  my  head ;  I  seemed  to 
have  been  gazing  into  something  at  which  a  man 
should  not  look.  ...  I  covered  my  eyes  with  my 
hand — and  suddenly,  as  though  in  obedience  to  a 
mysterious  command,  I  began  to  recall  my  whole 
life.  .  .  . 

Now  my  childhood  flitted  before  me, — noisy 
and  quiet,  irritable  and  good,  with  hurried  joys 

218 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

and  swift  griefs ;  then  my  youth  rose  up,  troubled, 
strange,  vain-glorious,  with  all  its  errors  and  en- 
terprises, with  disordered  labour,  and  agitated  in- 
activity. .  .  .  Then  also  recurred  to  mv  mind  the 
comrades  of  my  aspirations  ....  then,  like  a  flash 
of  lightning  by  night,  several  bright  memories 
gleamed  ....  then  the  shadows  began  to  grow 
and  move  forward;  it  became  darker  and  darker 
around  me ;  the  monotonous  years  flew  past  more 
dully  and  quietly — and  sadness  descended  like  a 
stone  upon  my  heart.  I  sat  motionless  gazing 
with  surprise  and  effort,  as  though  I  beheld  my 
whole  life  before  me,  as  though  a  scroll  were  being 
unrolled  before  my  eyes.  "  Oh,  what  have  I 
done?  "  my  lips  involuntarily  uttered  in  a  bitter 
whisj^er.  "  Oh,  life,  life,  how  art  thou  gone 
without  a  trace?  How  hast  thou  slipped  out  of 
my  tightly-clenched  hands?  Hast  thou  deceived 
me,  or  have  I  failed  to  make  use  of  thy  gifts? 
Is  it  possible?  This  trifle,  this  poor  handful  of 
dusty  ashes — is  that  all  that  is  left  of  thee?  This 
cold,  impassive,  useless  something— is  it  I,  the  I 
of  days  gone  by?  What?  ]\Iy  soul  has  thirsted 
for  such  full  happiness,  it  has  rejected  with  scorn 
everything  petty,  everything  defective,  it  has 
waited:  in  another  moment  ha])piness  will  gush 
ff)rth  in  a  flood  — and  not  a  single  dro])  has  mois- 
tened the  longing  lij)s?  Oh,  my  golden  chords, 
ye,  who  quivered  so  sensitively,  so  sweetly  once  on 
a  time,  —  I  hardly  heard  your  song  ....  ye  had 

219 


AN  EXCURSION 

only  just  begun  to  sound,  when  ye  broke.  Or, 
percliance,  liai)piness,  the  direct  happiness  of  my 
whole  life  lias  gone  by  close  to  mc,  has  passed 
me,  smiling  witli  a  radiant  smile — and  I  have 
failed  to  recognise  its  divine  countenance?  Or 
has  it  really  visited  me  and  sat  on  my  ])illow,  but 
I  have  forgotten  it,  as  though  it  had  been  a 
dream?  As  though  it  had  been  a  dream,"  —  I  re- 
peated dejectedly.  Intangible  images  wandered 
through  my  soul,  evoking  in  me  not  precisely 
pity,  nor  ^''et  precisely  perplexity.  ..."  And 
you," — I  thought,  —  "  dear,  familiar,  vanished 
faces,  you  who  have  encircled  me  in  this  dead 
solitude,  ^^  hy  are  you  so  profoundly  and  sadly 
silent?  From  what  depths  have  ye  risen?  How 
am  I  to  understand  your  enigmatical  glances? 
Are  ye  bidding  me  farewell,  or  are  ye  welcoming 
me?  Oh,  can  it  be  that  there  is  no  hope,  no  re- 
turn? Why  have  ye  flowed  from  my  eyes,  ye 
scanty,  belated  dro])s?  Oh,  heart,  to  what  end, 
wherefore,  still  feel  pity?  Strive  to  forget  if 
thou  desirest  repose;  train  thyself  to  the  submis- 
sion of  the  last  parting,  to  the  bitter  words: 
'  farewell '  and  '  forever.'  Do  not  look  back,  do 
not  remember,  do  not  aspire  thither  where  it  is 
bright,  where  youth  smiles,  where  joy  profound 
flutters  its  azure  pinions,  where  love,  like  the  dew 
in  the  crimson  dawn,  beams  with  tears  of  rapture; 
look  not  thither  where  bliss  dwells  and  faith  and 
2Dower — that  is  no  place  for  us!  " 

220 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

"  Here  's  your  water  for  you," — rang  out 
Egor's  resonant  voice  behind  me:  — "  drink,  with 
God's  blessing!  " 

I  gave  an  involuntary  start:  this  living  speech 
administered  a  shock  to  me,  joyously  agitated 
my  whole  being.  It  was  as  though  I  had  fallen 
into  an  unexplored,  gloomy  depth,  where  every- 
thing round  about  had  grown  still,  and  nothing 
was  audible  save  the  quiet  incessant  moaning  of 
some  eternal  grief  ....  as  though  I  M-ere  dying, 
but  could  not  offer  resistance;  and  suddenly  a 
friendly  call  had  reached  my  ear,  and  some  one's 
mighty  hand  had  brought  me  forth,  with  one  up- 
ward sweep,  into  God's  daylight.  I  glanced 
round,  and,  with  unspeakable  delight,  perceived 
the  Iionest  and  composed  face  of  my  guide.  He 
was  standing  before  me  in  a  light  and  stately 
pose,  with  his  wonted  smile,  reaching  out  to  me  a 
small,  damp  bottle,  all  filled  with  fresh  water.  .  .  . 
I  rose. 

"  Let  us  go  on,  guide  me,"  — I  said  with  enthu- 
siasm. 

We  set  out  and  roved  about  for  a  long  time, 
until  evening.  As  soon  as  the  midday  heat  "  held 
u}),"  it  began  to  grow  cold  and  dark  in  tlie  forest 
so  swiftly  that  one  no  longer  felt  any  inclination 
to  icmain  in  it.  "  Ik-gone,  ye  uneasy  mortals," 
it  seemed  to  be  wiiispering  to  us  in  surly  wise 
from  behind  every  pine.  \Vc  made  our  way  out, 
but  did  not  soon   find    Kondnit.     We  shouted, 

221 


AN  EXCURSION 

called  him  by  name,  but  he  did  not  respond. 
Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  wonderful  stillness 
of  the  air,  we  heard  his  "  whoa!  whoa!  "  —  ring  out 
in  a  ravine  close  at  hand.  ...  He  had  not  heard 
our  shouts  because  of  the  wind  which  had  sud- 
denly s^Jrung  up,  and  as  suddenly  completely  died 
away.  Only  on  trees  which  stood  apart  could  the 
traces  of  its  gusts  be  seen:  it  had  turned  many 
leaves  wrong  side  out,  and  so  they  remained,  im- 
parting a  motley  appearance  to  the  motionless 
foliage. 

We  climbed  into  the  cart  and  rolled  off  home- 
ward. I  sat  swaying  to  and  fro  and  quietly  in- 
haling the  damp,  rather  keen  air,  and  all  my 
recent  visions  and  regrets  were  engulfed  in  one 
sensation  of  dreaminess  and  fatigue,  in  one  desire 
to  return  as  promptly  as  possible  under  the  roof 
of  a  warm  house ;  to  drink  tea  with  thick  cream ; 
to  burrow  into  the  soft,  porous  hay  and  sleep, 
sleep,  sleep.  .  .  . 

THE  SECOND  DAY 

On  the  following  morning,  we  three  again  betook 
ourselves  to  the  Burnt  District.  Ten  years  pre- 
viously, several  thousand  desyatinas  had  been 
burned  over  in  the  Forest  Belt,  and  up  to  the 
])resent  time  it  had  not  been  covered  with  a  new 
growth  of  trees;  here  and  there  young  firs  and 
pines  are  springing  up,  but  with  that  exception, 

222 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

there  is  nothing  but  moss  and  ashes  rendered 
worthless  by  long  lying.  On  this  Burnt  District, 
which  is  reckoned  as  lying  twelve  versts  from 
Svyatoe,  grow  all  sorts  of  berries  in  great  quan- 
tities, and  woodcock,  which  are  extremely  fond 
of  strawberries  and  red  bilberries,  breed  there. 

We  were  driving  along  in  silence,  when  sud- 
denly Kondrat  raised  his  head. 

"Eh!"— he  exclaimed:  — "  why,  I  do  believe 
"t  is  Efrem  standing  yonder.  Morning,  Ale- 
xandritch,"  —  he  added,  raising  his  voice,  and  lift- 
ing his  cap. 

A  peasant  of  short  stature,  in  a  short,  black 
peasant-coat  girt  with  a  rope,  stepped  out  from 
under  a  tree  and  approached  the  cart. 

"Did  they  release  thee?"  —  inquired  Kondrat. 

"  I  should  think  they  did!  "  —  returned  the  peas- 
ant, displaying  his  teeth  in  a  grin.  —  "It  isn't 
convenient  to  hold  fellows  like  me." 

"  And  is  Piotr  Philippitch  all  right? " 

"  PhilippofF  is  it?  We  know  our  business,  he  's 
all  right." 

"  You  don't  say  so!  Why,  Alexandritch,  I  was 
thinking;  'come,  brother,'  I  was  thinking,  'now 
lie  down  on  the  frying-])an,  goose! 

"About  Piotr  Phih'i)p()f!'  is  it?  Not  much! 
^Ve  've  seen  his  like  before.  He  tries  to  play 
the  wolf,  but  he  lias  a  dog's  tail.  — Art  thou  going 
u-hunting,  master?  "—the  little  peasant  suddenly 
inquired,   swiftly   turning   up   to   me   his   little, 

223 


AN  EXCURSION 

piickered-iip    eyes,    and    iimiicdiately    dropping 
them  again. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  where,  for  example?  " 

"  To  the  Burnt  District,"— said  Kondrat. 

"  You  're  going  to  the  Burnt  District ;  look 
out  that  you  don't  drive  into  a  conflagration." 

"  Why,  what  dost  thou  mean?  " 

"  I  have  seen  a  lot  of  moor-cock,"  — went  on  the 
little  peasant,  as  though  jeering  and  without  re- 
plying to  Kondrat,—"  but  you  won't  hit  on  the 
place ;  it  is  a  good  twenty  versts  off  in  a  bee-line. 
And  there  's  Egor— there  's  no  denying  it!  he  's 
as  much  at  home  in  the  pine  forest  as  in  his  own 
yard,  but  even  he  won't  make  his  way  thither, 
^lorning,  Egor,  thou  God's  soul  worth  one  ko- 
pek,"—he  suddenly  bellowed. 

"  JNIorning,  Ef rem,"— returned  Egor  deliber- 
ately. 

I  stared  with  curiosity  at  this  Efrem.  It  was 
a  long  time  since  I  had  seen  so  strange  a  face. 
He  had  a  long,  sharp  nose,  big  lips,  and  a  scanty 
beard.  His  blue  eyes  fairly  darted  about  like 
fireworks.  He  stood  in  a  free-and-easy  attitude, 
with  his  arms  set  lightly  akimbo,  and  did  not  doff 

his  cap. 

"  Art  on  a  visit  home,  pray?  "—Kondrat  asked 

him. 

"Exh-sta!  on  a  visit!  'T  is  not  the  weather 
now  for  that,  brother.     I  've  been  on  a  spree. 

224 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

I'  ve  been  cutting  a  dash,  brother,  that  's  what. 
Thou  ma  vest  he  on  the  stove  until  winter,  and  not 
a  single  dog  will  sneeze.  That  superintendent 
yonder  in  the  town  said  to  me : '  Leave  us,  Alexan- 
dritch,'  says  he,  'go  away  out  of  the  country; 
we  '11  give  thee  a  first-class  passport  ....  but 
I  'm  sorry  for  thy  Svyatoe  folks :  they  can't  pro- 
duce another  such  thief  as  thou.'  " 

Kondrat  broke  out  laughing. 

"  Thou  art  a  jester,  little  uncle,  a  regular 
jester,"— he  said,  giving  the  reins  a  shake.  The 
horses  started  on. 

"  Whoa!  "  —  said  Efrem.  The  horses  came  to 
a  standstill.    Kondrat  did  not  like  this  sally. 

"  Stop  thy  insolence,  Alexandritch,"— he  re- 
marked in  an  undertone.  "  Dost  thou  not  see  that 
we  are  driving  a  gentleman?  He  '11  get  angry, 
the  first  thou  knowest." 

"  Ekh,  thou  sea-drake!  What  is  there  for  him 
to  get  angry  about?  He  's  a  kind  gentleman. 
Just  see  now,  he  '11  give  me  some  money  for  vodka. 
Ekh,  master,  give  the  wayfarer  the  price  of  a 
dram!  I  '11  dispose  of  it,"  — he  caught  himself  up, 
elevating  his  shoulder  to  liis  ear,  and  gnashing 
his  teetli. 

I  involuntarily  smiled,  gave  him  a  ten-kopek 
y)iece,  and  ordered  Kondrat  to  drive  on. 

"  Much  obliged.  Your  Well-born,"  —  shouted 
Efrem  after  us,  in  military  fashion.^     "  And  do 

'"Much  satisfied"  (in  the  plural),  literally.  — Thanslatob. 

22.5 


AN  EXCURSION 

thou,  Kondrat,  henceforth  know  from  whom  thou 
shouklst  take  lessons;  the  timid  man  is  done  for, 
the  bold  man  succeeds.  When  thou  returnest 
drop  in  to  see  me,  dost  hear?  I  shall  have  liquor 
on  hand  for  three  days ;  we  '11  jjolish  off  a  couple 
of  bottles;  my  wife  's  a  shrew,  the  liousekeeping" 
goes  as  on  runners.  .  .  .  Hey,  white-sided  magpie, 
carouse  while  thy  tail  is  whole!  " 

And  whistling  shrilly,  Efrem  dived  into  the 
bushes. 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?  "  —  I  inquired  of 
Kondrat,  who,  as  he  sat  on  the  box,  kept  shaking 
his  head  as  though  engaged  in  argument  with 
himself. 

"That  one,  j^ou  mean?" — returned  Kondrat, 
dropping  his  eyes.  — "  That  one,  you  mean?  "  he 
repeated. 

"  Yes.    Is  he  one  of  your  villagers?  " 

"  Yes ;  he  belongs  in  Svyatoe.  He  's  the  sort  of 
a  man  ....  Such  another  is  n't  to  be  found  for 
a  hundred  versts.  Such  a  thief  and  rascal— and, 
oh,  my  God!  his  eye  fairly  warps  at  other  folks* 
goods.  You  can't  get  away  from  him  even  by 
burrowing  in  the  earth ;  and  as  for  money,  for  ex- 
ample, why,  he  '11  drag  it  out  from  underneath 
your  very  backbone  without  your  noticing  it." 

"  What  a  daring  fellow  he  is!  " 

"Daring?  Yes;  he  is  n't  afraid  of  anybody. 
Just  you  take  a  good  look  at  him:  from  his  phy- 
nasomy  he  's  a  knave;  you  can  fairly  detect  that 

226 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

from  his  nose."  (Kondrat  frequently  drove  with 
gentlemen,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the 
county  town;  consequently,  he  was  fond,  on  oc- 
casion, of  showing  off.)  "  And  you  can't  do  any- 
thing to  him.  ]Many  a  time  they  've  haled  him  to 
town  and  put  him  in  prison, — and  only  loss  came 
of  it.  They  will  begin  to  bind  him,  and  he  'U 
say :  '  Come  now,  are  n't  you  going  to  fetter  that 
leg?  Fetter  it  also,  and  as  strongly  as  you  can, 
and  I  '11  take  a  nap  in  the  meantime ;  but  I  '11  reach 
home  quicker  than  your  guards.'  You  look:  and 
he  really  has  got  back,  he  's  there  again,  akh!  oh, 
thou  my  God!  All  of  us  hereabouts  know  the 
forest;  we  've  been  used  to  it  from  our  infancy, 
but  we  can't  compete  with  him.  Last  summer, 
he  came  by  night  in  a  bee-line  from  Altukhin  to 
Svvatoe,  which  must  be  fortv  versts.  And  as  for 
stealing  honey,  he  's  a  master-hand  at  that;  and 
not  a  bee  stings  him.  He  has  devastated  all  the 
bee -farms." 

"  I  supj)ose  lie  shows  no  quarter  to  the  wild 
liives  either?  " 

*' AVc'll,  no;  why  accuse  liim  without  cause? 
That  sin  has  not  been  noticed  in  him.  A  wild 
liive  is  a  sacred  thing  with  us.  A  bee-farm  is 
fenced  in;  there  is  a  guard;  if  he  purloins  that, — 
that  's  accor(hng  to  hick;  l)ut  a  wikl  bee  is  God's 
affair,  not  guarded;  only  a  bear  touches  it." 

"  That  's  because  he  is  a  bear,"  —  remarked 
Egor. 

227 


AX  EXCURSIOX 

"  Is  he  married?  " 

"  Certainly.  And  he  has  a  son.  And  his  son 
will  turn  out  a  thief  also!  He  takes  after  his 
father  completely.  And  he  's  teaching  him  now. 
A  little  while  ago  he  brought  home  a  pot  full  of 
old  five-kopek  pieces,— he  had  stolen  it  some- 
where, of  course ;  he  went  and  buried  it  in  a  glade 
in  the  forest,  but  returned  home  himself  and  sent 
his  son  to  the  glade.  '  I  won't  give  thee  anything 
to  eat  until  thou  findest  the  pot,'  says  he ;  '  and  I 
won't  let  thee  into  the  house.'  — The  son  sat  a 
whole  day  in  the  forest,  and  spent  the  night  in  the 
forest;  but  he  found  the  pot.  Yes,  he  's  clever, 
that  Efrem.  So  long  as  he  's  at  home,  he  's  an 
amiable  man,  he  treats  everybod}^:  drink,  eat,  as 
much  as  thou  wilt;  and  folks  set  up  dancing  at 
his  house,  and  all  sorts  of  drollery;  but  if  he  's 
at  the  assembly,— we  have  such  an  assembly  in 
our  village,  —  the  best  thing  a  man  can  do  is  not 
to  condemn  him;  he  '11  come  up  from  behind, 
listen,  say  a  word,  as  though  he  were  chopping 
something,  and  off  he  '11  go;  and  't  is  a  weighty 
word.  And  if  he  goes  off  into  the  forest,  well, 
then  look  out  for  a  catastrophe !  Expect  ruin.  But 
I  must  say  one  thing,  that  he  won't  touch  his  own 
fellow-villagers  unless  he  's  in  a  tight  ])lace  him- 
self. If  he  meets  a  Svyatoe  man, — '  Turn  out, 
and  get  past  me,  brother,'— he  '11  shout  from  afar: 
— '  The  forest  spirit  has  come  over  me:  I  'm  in 
murderous  mood! ' — Calamity!  " 

228 


TO  THE  I'OKKST  BELT 

"  But  wliy  do  you  pay  any  heed  to  that?  Can- 
not the  whole  countryside  get  the  better  of  one 
nianf 

"  ^Vhy,  apparently  they  can't." 

"  Is  he  a  wizard,  pray?  " 

"  Who  knows?  A  while  ago,  he  got  into  the 
bee-farm  of  the  neighbouring  chanter,  by  night; 
yet  the  chanter  w  as  on  guard  himself.  Well,  he 
caught  him,  and  gave  him  a  good  thrashing  in 
the  darkness.  \Vhen  he  got  through,  Efrem  says 
to  him:  '  And  dost  thou  know  whom  thou  hast 
thrashed?'  And  when  the  chanter  recognised 
him  by  his  voice,  he  was  fairly  dumfounded. 
'  Well,  i)rother,'  says  Efrem,  '  thou  shalt  pay  for 
this.'  The  chanter  fell  at  his  feet:  '  Take  what 
thou  wilt,'  says  he.  —  '  Xo,'  says  the  other,  '  I  '11 
take  from  thee  at  my  own  time,  and  what  I 
choose.'  — And  what  think  you?  From  that  very 
dav,  the  chanter  began  to  wander  about  like  a 
shadow,  just  as  though  he  had  been  scalded. 
'My  heart  is  pining  away  within  me,'  says  he: 
'  evidently,  the  brigand  has  fastened  on  me  an 
awfully  strong  spell.'  — And  that  's  what  hap- 
pened to  him,  to  that  chanter." 

"  That  chanter  must  be  stupid,"  — I  remarked. 
"Stupid?  And  is  that  the  way  you  judge? 
Once  an  order  was  issued  to  capture  that  same 
Efrem.  We  've  got  such  a  sharp  commissary 
of  police!  So  ten  men  set  out  to  capture  Efrem. 
They  see  him  coming  toward  them.  .  .  .  One  of 

229 


AN  EXCURSION 

them  begins  to  shout : '  There  he  is,  hold  him,  bind 
him ! '  But  Ef rem  goes  into  the  forest,  and  cuts 
himself  a  cudgel,  about  two  fingers  thick,  and 
leaps  out  again  on  the  road,  so  hideous,  so  terrible, 
and  commands,  like  a  general  on  parade :  '  On 
your  knees!'— and  down  they  all  fall.  — '  And 
who  was  it,'— says  he,—'  that  shouted,—"  Hold 
him,  bind  him?  "  Thou,  Seryoga? '  And  the  lat- 
ter just  springs  to  his  feet,  and  makes  off.  .  . 
But  Efrem  follows  him  and  whacks  him  on  the 
heels  with  his  cudgel.  .  .  .  He  stroked  him  for 
about  a  verst.  And  afterward  he  was  always  com- 
plaining :  '  Ekh,  I  'm  vexed,'  says  he,  '  that  I 
did  n't  prevent  his  eating  flesh  for  the  last  time 
before  the  fast.'  This  liappened  just  before  the 
fast  of  St.  Philip.  Well,  and  the  commissary  of 
police  was  soon  superseded,— and  that  was  the 
end  of  the  whole  matter." 

"  But  why  did  they  all  submit  to  him?  " 
"  Why!  because  they  just  did.  .  .  ." 
"  He  has  scared  all  of  you,  and  now  he  does 
what  he  pleases  with  j^ou." 

"  He  has  scared  us.  .  .  .  But  he  '11  scare  any 
one  you  like.  And  he  's  clever  at  inventions. 
O  thou,  my  God!— Once  I  stumbled  upon  him  in 
the  forest,  and  such  a  healthy  rain  was  coming 
down  that  I  was  about  to  turn  aside.  .  .  .  But 
he  looked  at  me,  and  beckoned  me  up  so,  with  his 
hand.  '  Come  hither,  Kondrat,'  says  he,  '  don't 
be  afraid.     Learn  from  me  how  to  hve  in  the 

230 


TO  THE  FOUKST  liKLT 

forest,  and  what  to  do  in  a  rain.'  I  approaclied 
liini,  and  he  was  sitting'  under  a  spruee-tree  and 
had  hghted  a  small  lire  ol"  damp  hranches;  tlie 
smoke  had  eauf^ht  in  tlie  spruce,  and  jjievented 
the  rain  lioin  drijjping  down.  I  was  astonished 
at  him.  And  then,  here  's  anotlier  thing-  he  in- 
vented, onee  on  a  time  "  (and  Kondrat  hroke  into 
a  laugh),  "  and  amused  us.  Our  oats  were  being 
threshed  on  the  threshing-lloor,  but  the  men  had 
not  Hnisjied;  they  had  not  managed  to  rake  to- 
getlier  the  last  })ile.  \N\'ll,  and  .so  tliey  stationed 
two  sentries  for  the  night:  hut  the  lads  were  not 
ol'  the  l)ra\e  sort.  So,  they  \s  ere  sitting  and  chat- 
tering, when  Kfrem  took  and  tilled  the  sleeves  of 
his  shirt  \\'\[\\  straw,  and  tied  the  ends,  and  put 
the  shirt  on  his  liead.  So  he  crept  up  to  the  kiln 
in  that  guise,  and  began  to  show  himself  a  little 
from  round  the  corner,  and  thrust  forth  his  horns. 
One  voung  fellow  savs  to  tlie  other:  '  Dost  see? ' 
— '  I  see,'  says  the  other,  and  suddenly  uttered  an 
exclamation  ....  oidy  the  cords  of  their  bast- 
shppers  burst.  But  Ef  rem  gathered  the  oats  into 
a  sack  and  dragged  it  off'  to  his  house.  He  told 
all  about  it  himself  afterward.  How  he  did 
shame  them,  shame  those  lads.  .  .  .  Truly!" 

Again  Kondrat  burst  out  laughing.  And 
Egor  smiled.  ''  Only  the  cords  of  their  bast-slip- 
pers burst?  "  said  he. 

Again  we  all  relapsed  into  silence.  Suddenly 
Kondi'at  gave  a  start  of  alarm  and  sat  up  straight. 

231 


AX  KXCURSION 

"Hey,  good  heavens!  "—he  exclaimed; — 
"  why,  I  do  beheve  there  's  a  fire!  " 

"  Where?     Where?  "-we  asked. 

*'  Yonder,  look,  straight  ahead  in  the  direction 
we  're  driving.  ...  A  fire  it  is.  That  Efrem, 
—  Efrem  predicted  it.  Can  it  be  his  doing,  the 
accursed  soul?  .  .  .  ." 

I  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated  by  Kon- 
drat.  In  fact,  two  or  tliree  versts  in  front  of  us, 
behind  a  green  band  of  low  spruce-trees,  a  thick 
pillar  of  blue  smoke  was  slowly  rising  from  the 
earth,  gradually  curving  and  assuming  the  form 
of  a  cap ;  to  the  riglit  and  left  of  it  others,  smaller 
and  whiter,  were  visible. 

A  peasant,  all  red  in  the  face  and  perspiring, 
clad  in  nothing  but  his  shirt,  with  his  hair  di- 
shevelled above  his  frightened  face,  was  galloping 
straight  toward  us,  and  with  difficulty  drew  up  his 
hastily-bridled  horse. 

"  Brothers,"  —  he  asked  in  a  panting  voice, — 
"  have  n't  you  seen  any  of  the  forest  guards?  " 

"  No;  we  have  n't.  W^hat  is  it — is  the  forest 
on  fire? " 

"  Yes.  Tlie  people  must  be  assembled ;  other- 
wise, it  will  take  the  direction  of  Trosnoe.  .  .  ." 

The  peasant  jerked  his  elbows,  as  he  kicked  the 
flanks  of  his  horse  with  his  heels.  ...  It  galloped 
off. 

Kondrat  also  urged  on  his  pair.  We  drove 
straight  at  the  smoke,  which  spread  out  more  and 

232 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

more  widely;  in  places  it  suddenly  turned  black 
and  spurted  up  aloft.  The  nearer  we  came,  the 
less  clear  became  its  outlines;  soon  the  air  was 
all  dimmed,  there  was  a  strong  odour  of  burning, 
and  the  first  pale-red  tongues  of  flame  flashed 
out,  moving  strangely  and  terribly  among  the 
trees. 

"Well,  God  be  thanked,"— said  Kondrat:— 
"  it  appears  to  be  a  ground  fire." 

"A  what?" 

"  A  ground  fire ;  the  sort  which  runs  along  the 
ground.  'T  is  diflicult  to  get  control  of  an  un- 
derground fire.  What  is  one  to  do  when  the 
earth  is  burning  for  a  whole  arshin  ^  down?  There 
is  but  one  salvation:  dig  trenches— and  is  that 
easy?  But  a  ground  fire  is  nothing.  It  will  only 
shave  off  the  grass,  and  burn  up  the  dead  leaves. 
The  forest  is  all  the  better  for  it.  But  good  heav- 
ens, just  see,  how  it  has  struck  out!  " 

We  drove  almost  to  the  very  verge  of  the  con- 
flagration. I  alighted  and  walked  toward  it. 
This  was  neitlier  difficult  nor  dangerous.  The 
fire  was  running  through  the  sparse  pine  forest 
(if!;ainst  the  wind;  it  was  moving  with  an  uneven 
hue,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  in  a  dense,  ser- 
rated wall  of  rcflexed  tongues.  The  smoke  was 
carried  away  by  the  wind.  Kondrat  had  told 
the  truth;  it  really  was  a  ground  fire,  which  was 
merely  shaving  off  the  grass,  and  without  flam- 

1  Twenty-ei)flit  inches— the  Russian  yard-measure.  — Th a nslatob. 

233 


AX  EXCURSION 

in<^'  up  was  proceeding  onward,  leaving  behind  it 
a  black  and  smoking,  but  not  even  smouldering, 
track.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  in  places  where  the 
fire  encountered  a  depression  filled  with  a  thicket 
and  dried  branches,  it  suddenly  reared  itself  aloft 
with  a  certain  peculiar,  decidedly  ominous  roar, 
in  long,  billowy  tufts;  but  it  speedily  subsided, 
and  ran  onward  as  before,  lightly  crackling  and 
hissing.  I  even  noticed  more  than  once,  how  an 
oak-bush  with  dry,  pendent  leaves,  though  sur- 
rounded by  the  flame  remained  untouched;  it 
merely  got  a  little  singed  below.  I  must  confess 
that  I  could  not  understand  why  the  dry  leaves 
did  not  catch  fire.  Kondrat  explained  to  me  that 
this  arose  from  the  fact  that  it  was  a  ground  fire, 
"  that  is  to  say,  not  an  angry  one." 

"  But  it  is  a  fire,  nevertheless,"  I  retorted. 
— "  'T  is  a  ground  fire," — repeated  Kondrat. 
But  although  it  was  a  ground  fire,  yet  the  con- 
flagration produced  its  effect:  the  hares  were 
scurrying  back  and  forth  in  a  disorderly  sort  of 
way,  quite  unnecessarily  returning  to  the  vicinity 
of  the  fire;  birds  got  caught  in  the  smoke,  and 
circled  about ;  the  horses  glanced  about  them,  and 
snorted;  the  very  forest  seemed  to  be  booming, 
— and  man  felt  uncomfortable  with  the  heat 
which  suddenly  struck  him  in  the  face.  .  .  . 

"  What  's  the  use  of  looking  at  it?  "—said 
Egor  suddenly  behind  my  back.  —  "  Let 's  go  on." 

"  But  where  are  we  to  pass  through?  " 

234 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

"  Turn  to  the  left,  over  the  dry  marsh,— we  can 
drive  across." 

We  turned  to  the  left  and  drove  over,  although 
sometimes  it  was  rather  hard  on  the  horses  and 
the  cart. 

All  day  long  we  dragged  on  through  the 
Burnt  District.  Just  before  evening  (the  sun- 
set glow  had  not  yet  kindled  in  the  sky,  but  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  already  lay  motionless  and 
long;  and  in  the  grass  that  cliill  was  perceptible 
M-hich  precedes  the  dew)  I  lay  down  on  the  road 
near  the  cart, — to  which  Kondrat  was  engaged, 
without  haste,  in  harnessing  the  horses  which  had 
eaten  their  fill,  —  and  recalled  my  cheerless  visions 
of  the  day  before.  EverA^thing  round  about  was 
as  still  as  on  the  preceding  day ;  but  the  soul-op- 
pressing and  crowding  pine  forest  was  not  there; 
on  the  tall  moss,  the  lilac  steppe-grass,  the  soft 
dust  of  the  road,  the  slender  boles  and  clean  lit- 
tle leaves  of  the  young  birches,  lay  the  clear  and 
gentle  light  of  the  low-hanging,  no  longer  sultry, 
sun.  Everything  was  resting,  immersed  in  a 
soothing  coolness;  nothing  had  yet  fallen  asleep, 
])ut  everything  was  already  preparing  for  the 
healing  slumber  of  the  evening  and  the  night. 
Everytliing  seemed  to  be  saying  to  man:  "  Rest, 
our  brother;  breathe  lightly  and  do  not  grieve  be- 
fore sleep,  wliich  is  near  at  hand."  I  raised  my 
head  and  beheld,  at  the  very  tip  of  a  slender 
branch,  one  of  those  large  flies  with  an  emerald 

235 


AN  EXCURSION 

head,  a  long  body,  and  four  transparent  wings, 
which  the  French  coquettishly  designate  as  "  de- 
moiselles," and  our  guileless  folk  call  "  yokes." 
For  a  long  time,  more  than  an  hour,  I  did  not 
take  my  eyes  off  it.  Baked  through  and  through 
by  the  sun,  it  did  not  stir,  but  only  now  and  then 
turned  its  head  from  side  to  side,  and  let  its 
raised  wings  palpitate  ....  that  is  all.  As  I 
gazed  at  it,  it  suddenly  seemed  to  me  that  I  un- 
derstood the  life  of  nature, — understood  its  clear 
and  indubitable,  though  for  many  still  mysteri- 
ous meaning.  The  slow  and  quiet  inspiration, 
leisureliness  and  reserve  of  sensations  and  of 
forces,  the  equilibrium  of  health  in  each  separate 
individual — that  is  its  very  basis,  its  irrevocable 
law ;  that  is  the  thing  on  which  it  stands  and  is  up- 
held. Everything  which  deviates  from  this  level 
— either  above  or  below,  it  makes  no  difference — 
is  cast  forth  by  it  as  worthless.  Many  insects  die 
as  soon  as  they  know  the  equilibrium-destroying 
joy  of  love;  an  ailing  wild  beast  plunges  into  the 
dense  thickets,  and  expires  there  alone :  it  seems  to 
feel  that  it  no  longer  has  a  right  to  behold  the  sun, 
which  is  common  to  all,  or  to  breathe  the  free  air; 
it  has  not  the  right  to  live;  but  man,  whose  lot 
is  evil  in  the  world,  whether  by  his  own  fault  or 
through  that  of  others,  must  at  least  know  how  to 
hold  his  peace. 

"  Come,  what  art  thou  about,  Egor?  "—sud- 
denly exclaimed  Kondrat,  who  had  already  man- 

236 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

aged  to  mount  the  box  of  the  cart,  and  was  play- 
ing with  and  disentanghng  the  reins.  —  "Come, 
take  thy  seat.  What  hast  thou  fallen  to  musing 
about?    Still  about  the  cow?  " 

"About  the  cow?  About  what  cow?  "  —  I  asked, 
glancing  at  Egor.  Calm  and  dignified  as  ever, 
he  really  had  fallen  to  musing,  apparently,  and 
was  gazing  off  somewhere  into  the  distance,  at  the 
fields  which  were  already  beginning  to  grow  dark. 

"  AVhv,  don't  vou  know?  "  —  retorted  Kondrat: 
—  "  his  last  cow  died  last  night.  He  has  no  luck — 
what  's  to  be  done  ?  " 

Egor  took  his  seat  in  silence  on  the  box,  and  we 
drove  off.  "  That  man  knows  how  to  refrain 
from  complaining,"  I  thought. 


237 


ASYA 

(1857) 


ASYA 


1WAS  five-and-twenty  years  of  age  at  the  "^ 
time  [began  N.  N.].— 'T  is  an  affair  of  days 
long  past,  as  you  see.  I  had  just  acquired  my 
freedom  and  had  gone  abroad;  not  in  order  to 
"  finish  my  education,"  as  people  expressed  it 
then,  but  simply  because  I  wanted  to  see  God's 
world.  I  was  healthy,  young,  cheerful;  my 
money  was  not  exhausted;  cares  had  not  vet  sue- 
ceeded  in  accumulating;  I  lived  without  lookingv 
back,  I  did  what  I  wished:  in  one  word,  I  flour- 
ished. It  never  entered  my  head  that  man  is  not 
a  plant,  and  that  he  cannot  flourish  long.  Youth 
eats  gilded  gingerbread  cakes  and  thinks  they  are 
its  daily  bread;  but  a  time  will  come  when  one 
will  beg  for  bread.  But  there  is  no  use  in  dis- 
cussing that. 

1  was  travelling  utterly  w  ithout  an  aim,  without 
a  plan;  I  was  halting  everywhere  where  things 
])leased  me,  and  immediately  proceeded  onward, 
as  soon  as  I  felt  a  desire  to  see  new  faces — pre- 
cisely that,  faces.     People  alone  and  exclusively 

241 


ASYA 

interested  me;  I  hated  eurioiis  nioniiments,  note- 
worthy eolleetions;  the  mere  sight  of  a  local  guide 
aroused  in  me  a  sensation  of  melancholy  and 
wrath.  I  nearly  went  out  of  my  mind  in  the 
Griine  Gewolhe  in  Dresden.  Nature  had  a  very 
great  effect  on  me,  hut  I  did  not  love  its  so- 
called  heauties,  remarkahle  mountains,  cliffs,  and 
waterfalls;  I  did  not  like  to  have  it  force  itself 
upon  me,  interfere  with  me.  On  the  other  hand, 
faces, — living,  human  faces,  —  people's  speech, 
their  movements,  their  laughter,  were  what  1 
could  not  dispense  with.  I  had  always  felt  pecu- 
liarly gay  and  at  my  ease  in  a  crowd;  I  found  it 
cheerful  to  go  where  other  people  went,  to  shout 
when  others  shouted;  and,  at  the  same  time,  I 
liked  to  watch  those  others  shout.  It  amused  me 
to  watch  people.  . . .  yes,  and  I  did  not  even  watch 
them — I  contemplated  them  with  a  sort  of  joyous 
and  insatiable  curiosity.  But  I  am  digressing 
again. 

So  then,  twenty  years  ago,  I  was  residing  in  the 
small  German  town  of  Z,,  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rhine.  I  was  seeking  solitude;  I  had  just  been 
wounded  in  the  heart  by  a  young  widow,  with 
whom  I  had  become  acquainted  at  the  baths.  She 
was  very  pretty  and  clever;  she  coquetted  with 
every  one — including  sinful  me;  and  at  first  she 
even  encouraged  me,  but  afterward  wounded  me 
cruelly,  sacrificing  me  to  a  red-cheeked  Bavarian 
lieutenant.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  the  wound 
in  my  heart  was  not  very  deep;  but  I  regarded 

242 


ASYA 

it  as  my  duty  to  surrender  myself  to  grief  and 
solitude  for  a  certain  time, — with  what  will  not 
youth  divert  itself! — and  I  settled  in  Z. 

This  little  town  pleased  me  by  its  site  at  the 
foot  of  two  lofty  hills;  bj-  its  decrepit  walls  and 
towers,  its  aged  lindens,  and  the  steep  bridge  over 
the  bright  little  river,  which  fell  into  the  Rhine; 
but  chiefly  by  its  good  wine.  Through  its  narrow 
streets  there  strolled  in  the  evening,  immediately 
after  sunset  (this  was  in  July) ,  extremely  pretty, 
fair-haired  German  maidens,  and  on  meeting  a 
stranger  they  articulated  with  a  pleasant  voice: 
"  Guten  Abend!  " — and  some  of  them  did  not  de- 
part even  when  the  moon  rose  from  behind  the 
steep  roofs  of  the  ancient  houses,  and  the  tiny 
stones  of  the  pavement  were  clearly  outlined  in 
its  motionless  rays.  I  loved  to  wander  then 
through  the  town ;  the  moon  seemed  to  be  gazing 
intently  at  it  from  the  clear  sky;  and  the  town 
felt  that  gaze,  and  stood  sensitive  and  peaceful, 
all  bathed  in  its  light, — that  tranquil  and,  at  the 
same  time,  soul-agitating  light.  The  cock  on  the 
tall  Gothic  belfry  glittered  like  pale  gold;  the 
same  gold  was  diffused  in  streams  over  the  shin- 
ing black  expanse  of  the  little  river;  slender 
candles  (the  (Tcrman  is  economical!)  burned  mod- 
estly in  the  narrow  windows  under  the  slate-cov- 
ered roofs;  grape-vines  mysteriously  thrust  their 
curled  moustaches  from  behind  stone  walls;  some- 
thing flitted  j)ast  in  the  shadow  near  the  ancient 
well  on  the  triangular  market-place;  suddenly  the 

243 


ASYA 

somnolent  wliistle  of  the  night  watchman  rang 
out,  a  good-natin-ed  dog  growled  in  an  undertone, 
the  air  fairly  caressed  one's  face,  and  the  lin- 
dens emitted  so  sweet  a  perfume  that  one's  chest 
involuntarily  inhaled  deeper  and  deeper  breaths, 
and  the  word:  "  Gretchen  "  —  not  quite  an  excla- 
mation nor  yet  quite  a  query — fairly  forced  itself 
to  one's  lips. 

The  little  town  of  Z.  lies  a  couple  of  versts  dis- 
tant from  the  Rhine.  I  frequently  walked  to  take 
a  look  at  the  majestic  stream  and,  as  I  mused, — 
not  without  some  effort, — on  the  sly  widow,  I 
would  sit  for  long  hours  on  a  stone  bench,  beneath 
a  huge,  isolated  ash-tree.  A  small  statue  of  the 
iNIadonna,  with  almost  childish  face  and  a  red 
heart  on  her  breast,  transfixed  by  swords,  gazed 
sadly  forth  from  among  its  branches.  On  the 
opposite  shore  was  the  small  town  of  L.,  a  little 
larger  than  the  one  in  which  I  had  settled  down. 
One  evening  I  was  sitting  on  my  favourite  bench, 
gazing  now  at  the  river,  now  at  the  sky,  and  again 
at  the  vineyards.  In  front  of  me,  tow-headed 
urchins  were  clambering  over  the  sides  of  a  boat, 
drawn  up  on  the  shore,  and  overturned  with  its 
tarred  bottom  upward.  Small  vessels  were  run- 
ning under  slightly  inflated  sails;  the  greenish 
waves  were  gliding  past,  faintly  swelling  and 
gurgling.  Suddenly  the  sounds  of  music  were 
wafted  to  my  ear :  I  began  to  listen.  A  waltz  was 
being  plaj^ed  in  the  town  of  L.;  a  bass-viol  was 

244 


ASYA 

droning  spasmodically;  a  violin  was  trilling  in- 
distinctly ;  a  flute  was  piping  valorously. 

"  What 's  that?  "  —  I  enquired  of  an  old  man  in 
a  velveteen  waistcoat,  blue  stockings  and  buckled 
shoes,  who  approached  me. 

"  That," — he  replied,  having  preliminarily 
shifted  the  mouthpiece  of  his  pipe  from  one  cor- 
ner of  his  mouth  to  the  other,  — "  is  students  who 
have  come  from  B.,  for  a  commers." 

"  I  believe  I  '11  take  a  look  at  that  commers," 
—  I  thought.  — "  By  the  way,  I  have  n't  been  in 
L.,  as  yet."  I  hunted  up  a  wherryman  and  set 
off  for  the  other  shore. 


II 

It  is  not  every  one,  possibly,  who  knows  what  a 
commers  is.  It  is  a  peculiar  sort  of  triumphal 
banquet,  at  which  the  students  of  one  land  or  fra- 
ternity (Landsmannschaft)  assemble.  Almost 
all  the  participants  on  a  commers  wear  the  cos- 
tume,—established  long  ago,— of  German  stu- 
dents: a  round  jacket,  large  boots,  and  tiny  caps 
with  bands  of  familiar  colours.  The  students 
generally  assemble  for  a  dinner,  presided  over  by 
the  Senior,  that  is  to  say,  the  Elder,  — and  feast 
until  morning,  drink,  sing  the  songs,  "  Landes- 
vater,"  "  (iaudeamus,"  smoke  and  curse  the  Phi- 
listines; sometimes  they  hire  an  orchestra. 

Just  this  sort  of  a  commers  was  in  progress 

24.5 


ASYA 

in  L.,  in  front  of  a  small  inn  under  tlie  sign- 
l)oar(l  of  the  "  Sun,"  in  a  garden  which  abutted 
on  tlie  street.  Over  the  inn  itself,  and  the  garden, 
flags  were  fluttering;  the  students  were  sitting  at 
tables  under  the  clipped  lindens;  a  huge  bull-dog 
was  lying  under  one  of  the  tables;  on  one  side, 
in  an  arbour  of  ivy,  the  musicians  were  installed 
and  were  playing  industriously,  constantly  rein- 
forcing their  strength  with  beer.  On  the  street, 
in  front  of  the  low  fence  of  the  garden,  a  consid- 
erable number  of  people  were  gathered :  the  good- 
natured  citizens  of  L.  had  not  wished  to  let  slip 
the  opportunity  of  staring  at  visitors  from  a  dis- 
tance. I  also  mingled  in  the  crowd  of  spectators. 
It  cheered  me  to  look  at  the  faces  of  the  students ; 
their  embraces,  exclamations,  the  innocent  co- 
quetry of  youth,  the  ardent  glances,  the  cause- 
less laughter — the  best  laughter  in  the  world, — 
all  this  joyous  ebullition  of  young,  fresh  life,  this 
impulse  in  advance— no  matter  where,  so  long  as 
it  was  forward, — this  good-natured  liberty 
touched  and  kindled  me.  Why  not  join  them? 
I  asked  myself.  .  .  . 

"Asya,  art  thou  satisfied?  "—suddenly  said  a 
man's  voice  behind  me,  in  Russian. 

"  Let  us  w^ait  a  little  longer,"— replied  another, 
a  feminine  voice,  in  the  same  language. 

I  wheeled  hastily  round.  .  .  My  gaze  fell  upon 
a  handsome  young  man  in  a  foraging-cap  and  a 
roomy  round- jacket.    He  was  arm  in  arm  with  a 

246 


ASYA 

young  girl  of  short  stature,  with  a  straw  hat 
which  covered  the  whole  upper  part  of  her  face. 

"You  are  Russians?"  —  broke  involuntarily 
from  my  tongue. 

The  voung  man  smiled  and  said: 

"  Yes;  we  are  Russians." 

"  I  did  not  in  the  least  expect  ....  in  such  a 
remote  nook  .  .  .  ."I  was  beginning  .... 

"  And  we  did  not  expect,"  —  he  interrupted  me; 
— "  what  of  that?  so  much  the  better.  Allow  me 
to  introduce  myself.  ]My  name  is  Gagin,  and  this 
is  my  "  ....  he  hesitated  for  a  moment, — "  is 
my  sister.    And  may  I  ask  your  name?  " 

I  mentioned  my  name,  and  we  got  into  conver- 
sation. I  learned  that  Gagin,  while  travelling  for 
pleasure,  like  myself,  had  arrived  in  the  town  of 
L.  a  week  previously,  and  had  stuck  fast  there. 
Truth  to  tell,  I  was  not  fond  of  making  acquain- 
tance with  Russians  abroad.  I  recognised  them 
from  afar  by  their  walk,  the  cut  of  their  garments, 
and,  chiefly,  by  the  expression  of  their  faces.  Con- 
ceited and  scornful,  often  imperious,  it  was  sud- 
denly rejjlaced  by  an  expression  of  caution  and 
timidity.  .  .  .  The  man  would  suddenly  become 
all  alert,  his  eyes  would  roll  about  uneasily.  .  .  . 
"  Good  heavens!  have  n't  I  })lun(lered?  Are  n't 
people  laughing  at  me? "  that  hurried  glance 
seemed  to  ])e  saying.  .  .  .  i\  moment  ])assed, — 
and  again  the  majesty  of  the  physiognomy  was 
restored,  now  and  then  giving  way,  in  turn,  to  dull 

247 


ASYA 

perplexity.  Yes,  I  avoided  Russians,  but  I  took 
an  instantaneous  liking  to  Ga^jn.  There  are  in 
the  world  such  hai)py  faces,  that  every  one  likes 
to  look  at  them,  as  though  they  warmed  or  ca- 
ressed you.  Gagin  had  precisely  such  a  face, 
charming,  caressing,  with  large,  soft  eyes,  and 
soft,  curly  hair.  He  spoke  in  such  a  way  that, 
without  seeing  his  face,  merely  from  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  you  felt  that  he  was  smiling. 

The  young  girl  whom  he  had  called  his  sister, 
seemed  to  me  very  pretty  at  the  first  glance. 
There  was  something  individual,  peculiar  in  the 
form  of  her  dark-skinned,  round  face,  with  its 
small,  slender  nose,  almost  childish  little  cheeks, 
and  bright,  black  eyes.  She  was  gracefully  built, 
and  apparently  not  yet  fully  developed.  She  did 
not  bear  the  slightest  resemblance  to  her  brother. 

"  Will  you  drop  in  and  make  us  a  call?  "  —  said 
Gagin  to  me.  — "  I  think  we  have  gazed  x)ur  fill 
at  the  Germans.  Our  fellows,  it  is  true,  would 
have  smashed  the  glasses  and  broken  the  chairs, 
but  these  men  are  more  discreet.  Shall  we  go 
home — what  thinkest  thou,  Asya?  " 

The  young  girl  nodded  assent. 

"  We  are  living  out  of  town," — went  on  Gagin, 
"  in  a  vineyard,  in  an  isolated  house,  high  up.  We 
have  a  splendid  site,  as  you  will  see.  The  land- 
lady has  promised  to  prepare  some  sour  milk  for 
us.  But  it  will  soon  be  dark  now,  and  it  will  be 
better  for  you  to  cross  the  Rhine  by  moon^ght" 

248 


ASYA 

We  set  out.  Through  the  small  gates  of  the 
town  (an  ancient  wall  of  cobble-stones  sur- 
rounded it  on  all  sides,  and  even  the  embrasures 
had  not  yet  entirely  gone  to  ruin)  we  emerged 
into  the  open  country,  and,  proceeding  for  a  hun- 
dred paces  along  the  stone  rampart,  halted  before 
a  narrow  wicket-gate.  Gagin  opened  it  and  led 
us  up  the  hill  by  a  steep  path.  Grape-vines  grew 
on  both  sides,  on  terraces;  the  sun  had  just  set, 
and  a  thin  scarlet  light  lay  on  the  vines,  on  the  tall 
stakes,  on  the  dry  earth  thickly  besprinkled  with 
large  and  small  flag-stones,  and  on  the  white  walls 
of  a  small  house,  with  black,  sagging  joists  and 
four  bright  little  w^indows,  which  stood  on  the 
very  apex  of  the  hill  up  which  we  were  climbing. 

"Here  's  our  dwelling!" — exclaimed  Gagin, 
as  soon  as  we  began  to  approach  the  house;  — 
"  and  yonder  is  the  landlady  bringing  the  milk. 
Guten  ^Lhend,  Madame!  ....  We  '11  set  to  eat- 
ing immediately;  but  first,"  —  he  added,  —  "look 
around  you  ....  What  do  you  think  of  the 
view  f 

The  view  really  was  magnificent.  The  Rhine 
lay  before  us,  between  green  banks;  in  one  place 
it  was  flaming  with  the  crimson  hues  of  the  sun- 
set. Tlie  httle  town,  nestling  close  against  the 
shore,  dis])layed  all  its  houses  and  streets;  hills  and 
fields  s])rcad  out  widely  in  all  (hrcctions.  Down 
below  it  liad  been  good,  but  up  aloft  it  was  still 
better:  I  was  particularly  stnick  l)y  the  ])urity  and 

219 


ASYA 

deptli  of  the  sky,  the  radiant  transparency  of  the 
air.  Cool  and  light,  it  softly  undulated  and 
surged  in  waves,  as  though  it  were  more  at  its 
ease  on  the  heights. 

"  You  have  chosen  ca})ital  (j[uarters,"  —  I  said. 

"  It  was  Asya  who  found  them,"  —  replied  Ga- 
gin.  —  "  Come  now,  Asya,"— he  went  on: — "  See 
to  things.  Order  everything  to  be  served  here. 
We  will  sup  in  the  open  air.  The  music  can  be 
heard  better  here.  Have  you  noticed," — he 
added,  turning  to  me,  — "  that  some  waltzes  are 
good  for  nothing  when  heard  close  to? — the 
sounds  are  insipid,  harsh — while  at  a  distance, 
they  are  splendid !  they  fairly  set  all  the  romantic 
chords  in  you  to  vibrating." 

Asya  (her  name  was  really  Anna,  but  Gagin 
called  her  Asya,  and  therefore  you  must  permit 
me  to  do  the  same) — Asya  withdrew  into  the 
house,  and  speedily  returned  in  company  with  the 
landlady.  They  carried  between  them  a  large 
tray  with  a  pot  of  milk,  spoons,  sugar,  berries, 
and  bread.  We  sat  down  and  began  our  supper. 
Asya  removed  her  hat;  her  black  hair,  cut  short 
and  brushed  like  that  of  a  boy,  fell  in  large  rings 
on  her  neck  and  ears.  At  first  she  was  shy  of  me ; 
but  Gagin  said  to  her: 

"Asya,  have  done  with  thy  shrinking!  He 
doesn't  bite!" 

She  smiled  and,  a  little  while  afterward,  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  me  of  her  own  ac- 

250 


ASYA 

cord.  I  liave  never  seen  a  more  restless  being. 
She  did  not  sit  still  for  a  single  moment;  she 
kept  rising,  running  into  the  house,  and  running 
back  to  us  again.  She  would  begin  to  hum  in  a 
low  voice,  frequently  broke  out  laughing,  and 
that  in  a  very  strange  manner:  —  it  seemed  as 
though  she  were  laughing  not  at  what  she  heard, 
but  at  various  thoughts  which  came  into  her  head. 
Her  large  eyes  had  a  bright,  direct,  bold  gaze, 
but  sometimes  her  evelids  contracted  sliohtlv,  and 
then  her  glance  suddenly  became  deep  and  tender. 
We  chatted  for  a  couple  of  hours.  Day  had 
long  since  vanished,  and  evening,  — first  all  fiery, 
then  clear  and  scarlet,  then  pale  and  confused,— 
had  quietly  melted  and  merged  into  night;  and 
still  our  conversation  continued,  peaceful  and 
gentle  as  the  air  which  surrounded  us.  Gagin 
ordered  a  bottle  of  Rhine  wine  to  be  brought ;  we 
quaffed  it,  without  haste.  The  music,  as  before, 
floated  up  to  us;  its  sounds  seemed  sweeter  and 
more  tender;  the  lights  liad  kindled  in  the  town 
and  on  the  river.  Suddenly  Asya  lowered  her 
head,  so  that  her  curls  fell  into  her  ej^es,  became 
silent,  heaved  a  sigh,  and  then  said  to  us  that  she 
was  sleepy,  and  ^vcnt  away  to  the  house.  But 
I  saw  that,  without  lighting  a  candle,  she  stood 
for  a  long  time  at  the  unoj)ened  window.  At  last 
the  mfX)n  rose  and  played  on  the  Rhine;  every- 
thing grew  bright,  darkened,  changed,  even  tlie 
wine  in  our  facetted  glasses  began  to  glitter  with 

2.51 


ASYA 

a  mysterious  gleam.  The  wind  subsided,  as 
though  it  liad  folded  its  wings,  and  died  out; 
perfumed,  nocturnal  warmth  was  exhaled  from 
the  earth. 

"  'T  is  time  for  me  to  go!" — I  exclaimed:  — 
"  otherwise  I  shall  probably  find  no  one  to  ferry 
me  over." 

"  It  is  time,"  — repeated  Gagin. 

We  descended  along  the  path.  The  stones  be- 
hind us  suddenly  began  to  clatter;  it  was  Asya 
pursuing  us. 

"Art  thou  not  asleep?" — her  brother  asked 
her;  but  she,  without  answering  him  a  word,  ran 
past  us.  The  last  dying  fire-pots  lighted  by  the 
students  in  the  garden  of  the  inn  illuminated 
the  under  side  of  the  foliage  on  the  trees,  which 
imparted  to  it  a  festive  and  fantastic  aspect. 
We  found  Asya  on  the  shore;  she  was  chatting 
with  a  wherryman.  I  sprang  into  the  boat  and 
took  leave  of  my  new  friends.  Gagin  promised 
to  make  me  a  visit  on  the  following  day ;  I  shook 
hands  with  him,  and  offered  my  hand  to  Asya; 
but  she  merely  gazed  at  me  and  shook  her  head. 
The  boat  floated  off  and  glided  over  the  swift 
river.  The  wherryman,  a  brisk  old  fellow, 
dipped  his  oars  wdth  tense  effort  into  the  dark 
water. 

"  You  have  entered  the  shaft  of  moonlight,  you 
have  broken  it  up," — Asya  shouted  to  me, 

252 


ASYA 

I  lowered  my  eyes ;  around  the  boat  the  waves 
rocked  darkh'. 

"  Good-bye!  "—rang  out  her  voice  once 
more. 

"  Until  to-morrow,"  — said  Gagin,  after  her. 

The  boat  made  its  landing.  I  got  out  and 
danced  around  me.  No  one  was  anv  longer 
visible  on  the  opposite  shore.  The  shaft  of  moon- 
light stretched  in  a  golden  bridge  across  the  en- 
tire width  of  the  river.  As  though  by  way  of 
farewell,  the  sounds  of  an  old  Lanner  waltz 
hurtled  over.  Gagin  was  right:  I  felt  that  all 
my  heart-strings  were  vibrating  in  response  to 
those  challenging  strains.  I  wended  my  way 
home  through  the  darkening  fields,  slowly  in- 
lialing  the  fragrant  air,  and  reached  my  little 
chamber  all  softened  by  the  sweet  languor  of 
random  and  limitless  expectancy.  I  felt  happy. 
.  .  .  But  why  was  I  happy?  I  desired  no- 
thing, I  was  thinking  of  nothing.  ...  I  was 
happy. 

Almost  laughing  aloud  with  the  exuberance 
of  pleasant  and  vivacious  emotions,  I  dived  head- 
long into  bed,  and  was  on  the  point  of  closing 
my  eyes,  when  suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  that 
not  once  during  the  whole  course  of  the  evening 
liafl  I  called  to  mind  my  cruel  beauty.  ..."  But 
what  does  it  mean?  "  —  I  asked  myself:  —  "  Can  it 
be  that  I  am  in  love?"     But  without  furnish- 

253 


ASYA 

ing  myself  with  an  answer  to  this  question,  I 
apparently  fell  asleep  on  the  instant,  like  a  baby 
in  its  cradle. 

Ill 

On  the  following  morning  (I  was  already  awake, 
but  had  not  yet  risen),  a  knock  resounded  under 
my  window,  and  a  voice,  which  I  immediately  rec- 
ognised as  the  voice  of  Gagin,  struck  up: 

*'Sleepest  thou?  With  my  guitar 
I  will  awaken  thee.  .  .  .  "" 

I  made  haste  to  open  the  door  for  him. 

"  Good  morning," — said  Gagin,  as  he  entered: 
—  "I  have  disturbed  you  rather  early,  but  just  see 
what  a  morning  it  is.  See  the  freshness,  the  dew; 
and  the  larks  are  singing.  .  .  ." 

With  his  gleaming,  curly  hair,  his  bared  neck 
and  rosy  cheeks,  he  himself  was  as  fresh  as  the 
morning. 

I  dressed  myself;  we  went  out  into  the  little 
garden,  ordered  coffee  to  be  brought  out  to  us, 
and  began  to  chat.  Gagin  communicated  to  me  his 
plans  for  the  future :  being  in  possession  of  a  com- 
fortable property,  and  dependent  upon  no  one, 
he  was  desirous  of  devoting  himself  to  painting, 
and  only  regretted  that  he  had  become  sensible 
rather  late  in  the  day,  and  had  wasted  a  great  deal 
of  time  in  vain.    I  also  mentioned  my  intentions ; 

254 


ASYA 

ves,  and  bv  the  way,  I  confided  to  him  the  secret  of 
my  unhappy  love.  He  listened  to  me  with  conde- 
scension but,  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  perceive, 
I  did  not  arouse  in  him  any  strong  sympathy  for 
my  passion.  After  heaving  a  couple  of  sighs  in 
imitation  of  me,  out  of  politeness,  Gagin  pro- 
posed that  we  should  go  to  his  rooms  and  inspect 
his  sketches.     I  immediately  consented. 

We  did  not  find  Asya.  According  to  the  land- 
lady's words,  she  had  gone  to  "  the  ruin."  A 
couple  of  versts  from  the  town  of  L.  there  ex- 
isted the  remains  of  a  feudal  castle.  Gagin 
opened  all  his  portfolios  for  me.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  life  and  truth  in  his  studies,  some- 
thing free  and  broad;  but  not  a  single  one  of 
them  was  finished,  and  the  drawing  seemed  to  me 
to  be  slovenly  and  inaccurate.  I  frankly  ex- 
pressed my  opinion  to  him. 

"  Yes,  yes,"— he  chimed  in  with  a  sigh,—"  you 
are  right;  all  this  is  very  bad  and  immature,  but 
what  help  is  there  for  it?  I  have  not  studied 
as  I  should  have  done,  and  that  cursed  Slavonic 
laxity  is  asserting  itself.  When  one  dreams  of 
work,  he  soars  like  an  eagle;  it  seems  as  though 
he  could  move  the  earth  from  its  place;  but  in  the 
execution  he  immediately  grows  slack  and 
weary." 

I  tried  to  encourage  him,  but  he  waved  his  hand 
in  despair,  and  collecting  all  his  portfohos  in  his 
arms,  he  Hung  them  on  the  divan. 

255 


ASYA 

"  If  my  patience  holds  out,  I  shall  make  some- 
thin^v  of  myself," — he  muttered  through  his 
teetli:  —  "if  it  does  n't  hold  out,  I  shall  remain 
a  hohhledehoy  ^  of  the  gentry  class.  We  had 
better  go  and  look  up  Asya." 

We  went. 

IV 

The  road  to  the  ruin  wound  down  a  narrow  de- 
clivity to  a  wooded  valley ;  at  the  bottom  of  it  ran 
a  brook  purling  noisily  among  stones,  as  though 
in  haste  to  merge  itself  with  the  great  river  which 
gleamed  calmly  beyond  the  dark  border  of 
sharply-serrated  mountain  crests.  Gagin  called 
my  attention  to  several  happily  illuminated  spots ; 
in  his  words  was  audible,  if  not  the  painter,  yet 
certainly  the  artist.  The  ruin  soon  came  in  sight. 
On  the  very  apex  of  a  bare  cliff  rose  a  four- 
cornered  tower,  all  black,  still  strong,  but  cleft, 
as  it  were,  with  a  long  rent.  Mossy  walls  joined 
the  tower ;  here  and  there  ivy  was  clinging ;  small, 
distorted  trees  hung  from  the  grey  battlements 
and  crumbling  arches.  A  stony  path  led  to  the 
gate,  which  was  still  intact.  We  were  already 
approaching  it,  when  suddenly  a  woman's  figure 
flitted  in  front  of  us,  ran  swiftly  over  the  heap 
of  fragments,  and  placed  itself  on  a  projection 
of  the  wall  directly  over  the  chasm. 

'  An  allusion  to  Von  Vizin's  famous  comedy,  "The 
Hobbledehoy. ' ' — Tea  nslatoh. 

256 


ASYA 

"That  certainly  is  Asva!" — exclaimed  Ga- 
gin:  —  "  What  a  mad-woman!  " 

We  entered  the  gate  and  found  ourselves  in  a 
small  courtyard,  half  overgrown  with  wild  ap- 
ple-trees and  nettles.  On  the  projection  sat 
Asya,  in  effect.  She  turned  her  face  toward  us 
and  began  to  laugh,  but  did  not  stir  from  the 
spot.  Gagin  shook  his  finger  at  her,  while  I 
loudly  reproached  her  for  her  imprudence. 

"  Stop," — said  Gagin  to  me:  — "  don't  irritate 
her;  you  do  not  know  her:  she  is  quite  capable  of 
climbing  the  tower.  But  here,  you  had  better 
wonder  at  the  intelligence  of  the  local  inhabi- 
tants." 

I  looked  about  me.  In  one  corner,  sheltering 
herself  in  a  tiny  wooden  shed,  an  old  woman  was 
engaged  in  knitting  a  stocking,  and  darting  side- 
long glances  at  us  through  her  spectacles.  She 
sold  beer,  gingerbread,  and  seltzer  water  to  tour- 
ists. We  placed  ourselves  on  a  bench,  and  began 
to  drink  tolerably  cool  beer  out  of  heavy,  pewter 
mugs.  Asya  continued  to  sit  motionless,  with  her 
feet  tucked  up  under  her,  and  her  liead  enveloped 
in  a  muslin  scarf;  lier  graceful  figure  was  dis- 
tinctly and  beautifully  outlined  against  the  clear 
sky;  but  T  surveyed  her  with  an  unpleasant  sen- 
sation. On  the  preceding  evening  I  had  noticed 
something  constrained,  not  quite  natural,  about 
her.  ..."  She  wants  to  astonisli  ns,"  —  I  thouglit; 
"to  what  end?     AVliat  chiUhsli  prank  is  tliis?" 

257 


ASYA 

As  though  divining'  my  thoughts,  she  suddenly 
flung  a  swift,  piercing  glance  at  me,  hroke  out 
laughing  again,  and  with  two  skips  lea23ed  from 
the  wall,  and  running  up  to  the  old  woman, 
asked  her  for  a  glass  of  water. 

"  Dost  thou  think  that  I  want  to  drink?  " — she 
said,  addressing  her  hrother.  — "  No;  there  are 
flowers  on  the  wall  yonder,  which  positively  must 
be  watered." 

Gagin  made  her  no  reply;  and  she,  glass  in 
hand,  went  scrambling  over  the  ruins,  now  and 
then  halting,  bending  down  and,  with  amusing 
importance,  sprinkling  a  few  drops  of  water, 
which  glittered  brightlj^  in  the  sunlight.  Her 
movements  were  extremely  charming,  but,  as  be- 
fore, I  felt  vexed  with  her,  although  I  involun- 
tarily admired  her  lightness  and  agility.  At  one 
dangerous  spot  she  intentionally  shrieked  aloud, 
and  then  screamed  with  laughter.  ...  I  was 
more  vexed  than  ever. 

"Why,  she  climbs  like  a  goat," — muttered  the 
old  woman,  tearing  herself  for  a  moment  from 
her  stocking. 

At  last  Asya  entirely  emptied  her  glass,  and, 
swaying  in  frolicsome  wise,  she  returned  to  us. 
A  strange  smile  slightly  contracted  her  brows, 
nostrils,  and  lips;  half -audaciously,  half -merrily 
did  the  dark  eyes  narrow  their  lids. 

"You  consider  my  behaviour  improper,"— her 

258 


ASYA 

face  seemed  to  say:—"  I  don't  care:  I  know  that 
you  are  admiring  me." 

"  Clever,   Asya,   clever,"— said   Gagin,   in   an 
undertone. 

She  seemed  suddenly  seized  with  shame, 
dropped  her  long  eyelashes,  and  seated  herself 
modestly  beside  us,  like  a  culprit.  Then,  for  the 
first  time,  did  I  get  a  thoroughly  good  look  at  her 
face,  the  most  variable  face  which  I  had  ever 
beheld.  A  few  moments  later  it  had  turned  pale, 
and  assunied  a  concentrated,  almost  melancholy 
expression ;  her  very  features  seemed  to  me  larger, 
more  severe,  more  simple.  She  had  completely 
quieted  down.  We  made  the  circuit  of  the  ruin 
(Asya  followed  behind  us)  and  admired  the 
views.  In  the  meantime  the  hour  for  dinner  was 
drawing  near.  On  settling  with  the  old  woman, 
Gagin  asked  for  another  tankard  of  beer,  and 
turning  to  me,  exclaimed  with  a  sly  grimace: 

"  To  the  health  of  the  lady  of  your  heart!  " 

"  And  has  he,— have  you  such  a  lady?  "—Asya 
suddenly  inquired. 

"  Why,  who  has  not?  "—retorted  Gagin. 

Asya  })ecame  pensive  for  a  moment ;  again  her 
face  underwent  a  cliange;  again  there  made  its 
appearance  upon  it  a  challenging,  almost  auda- 
cious smile. 

On  the  way  liome  she  lauglied  and  frolicked 
worse  than  ever.     She  broke  off  a  long  branch. 

259 


ASYA 

laid  it  on  Iier  shoulders  like  a  gun,  and  bound 
her  scarf  around  her  head.  I  remember  tliat  we 
met  a  numerous  family  of  fair-haired  and  af- 
fected English  peojjle;  all  of  them,  as  though  at 
the  word  of  command,  stared  after  Asya  in  frigid 
amazement  with  their  glassy  eyes,  while  she,  as 
thougii  to  spite  them,  began  to  sing  loudly.  On 
reaching  home,  she  immediately  went  off  to  her 
room,  and  only  made  her  appearance  at  dinner, 
arraj'ed  in  her  best  gown,  with  her  hair  carefully 
arranged,  her  bodice  tightly  laced,  and  in  gloves. 
At  table  she  bore  herself  in  very  decorous  manner, 
almost  affectedly,  barely  tasted  the  viands,  and 
drank  water  out  of  a  wine-glass.  She  evidently 
wished  to  play  a  new  part  before  me — the  part  of 
a  decorous  and  well-bred  young  lady.  Gagin  did 
not  interfere  with  her ;  it  w^as  obvious  that  he  had 
got  used  to  backing  her  up  in  everything.  He 
merely  cast  a  good-humoured  glance  at  me  from 
time  to  time,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly, 
as  much  as  to  say:—"  She  is  a  child,  be  lenient."^ 
The  moment  dinner  was  over,  Asya  rose,  made 
a  curtsey  and,  donning  her  hat,  asked  Gagin 
whether  she  might  go  to  Frau  Luise. 

"  Hast  thou  long  been  in  the  habit  of  asking 
permission?  "—he  replied  with  his  invariable,  on 
this  occasion  somewhat  troubled,  smile:— "Dost 
thou  find  it  tiresome  with  us?  " 

"No;  but  I  promised  Frau  Luise  yesterday 
to  go  to  her;  and,  besides,  I  thought  you  would 

260 


ASYA 

be  better  off  alone  together;  Mr.  X."  (she  pointea 
at  me)  '"  will  tell  thee  something  more." 

She  departed. 

"  Frau  Luise," — began  Gagin,  endeavouring 
to  avoid  mv  eve,  — "  is  the  widow  of  a  former 
burgomaster  here,  a  kind-hearted  but  frivolous 
woman.  She  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Asya. 
Asya  has  a  passion  for  getting  acquainted  with 
people  from  a  lower  class.  I  have  observed  that 
the  cause  of  that  is  always  vanity.  I  have  spoiled 
her  pretty  thoroughly,  as  you  see," — he  added, 
after  a  brief  pause:  — "  and  what  would  you  have 
me  do?  I  don't  know  how  to  be  stern  with  anv 
one,  least  of  all  with  her.  I  am  hound  to  be  in- 
dulgent to  her." 

I  held  my  peace.  Gagin  changed  the  subject. 
The  better  I  knew  him  the  more  strongly  was  I 
drawn  to  liim.  I  soon  understood  him.  He  was 
a  regular  Russian  soul,  upright,  honourable,  sim- 
])le,  but,  unhappily,  somewhat  languid,  without 
tenacity  or  inward  ardour.  Youth  did  not  bub- 
])le  uj)  in  liim  like  a  spring;  it  beamed  with  a 
tranquil  liglit.  He  was  very  charming  and  clever, 
])ut  I  couhl  not  imagine  to  myself  what  would 
become  of  him  as  soon  as  he  became  a  man.  Be 
an  artist  ?  .  .  .  .  One  cannot  be  an  artist  without 
})itter,  incessant  toil  .  .  .  .  "  and  toil,"  I  thought, 
as  I  looked  at  his  soft  features,  and  listened  to 
liis  indolent  speech, — "  no!  Thou  wilt  never  toil, 
thou  wilt  not  be  capable  of  concentrating  thy- 

261 


ASYA 

self."  But  not  to  love  him  was  an  impossibility; 
one's  heart  was  fairly  drawn  to  him.  We  spent 
four  hours  together,  now  seated  on  the  divan, 
again  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro  in  front  of  the 
house;  and  in  the  course  of  tliose  four  hours  we 
definitively  struck  up  a  friendship. 

The  sun  set,  and  it  was  time  for  me  to  go  home, 
Asya  had  not  yet  returned. 

"  What  a  wilful  creature  she  is!  " — said  Gagin. 
— "  I  will  accompany  you,  shall  I?  We  '11  drop 
in  at  Frau  Luise's  on  the  way,  and  I  will  inquire 
if  she  is  there.    It  is  not  much  out  of  our  road." 

We  descended  to  the  town  and,  turning  into  a 
narrow,  crooked  alley,  halted  in  front  of  a  house 
two  windows  in  breadth  and  four  stories  high. 
The  second  story  projected  over  the  street  more 
than  the  first,  the  third  and  fourth  projected  more 
than  the  second ;  the  whole  house,  with  its  ancient 
carving,  its  two  thick  pillars  below,  its  pointed 
roof  of  tiles,  and  elongated  spout,  in  the  shape 
of  a  beak  on  the  garret,  seemed  like  a  huge, 
crouching  bird. 

"  Asya !  "  —  shouted  Gagin :  —  "  Art  thou 
here?" 

A  tiny  illuminated  window  in  the  third  story 
opened,  and  we  beheld  Asya's  little,  dark  head. 
The  toothless  and  purblind  face  of  an  old  Ger- 
man woman  peeped  forth  from  behind  her. 

"  I  'm  here,"— said  Asya,  coquettishly  prop- 
ping her  elbows  on  the  window-sill.    "  I  'm  com- 

262 


ASYA 

fortable  here.  There,  take  that,"— she  added, 
tossing  a  spray  of  geranium  to  Gagin.  — "  Im- 
agine that  I  am  the  lady  of  thy  heart." 

Frau  Luise  laughed. 

"  X.  is  going  away,"  —  returned  Gagin:  — "  he 
wants  to  bid  thee  farewell." 

"  Really?  "  —  said  Asya:  — "  In  that  case,  give 
him  my  spray,  and  I  '11  return  at  once." 

She  clapped  to  the  window  and,  apparently, 
kissed  Frau  Luise.  Gagin  silently  held  out  the 
spray  to  me.  I  silently  put  it  in  my  pocket, 
walked  to  the  ferry  and  crossed  to  the  other  side. 

I  remember  that  I  was  walking  home  think- 
ing of  nothing,  but  with  a  strange  weight  on  my 
heart,  when  suddenly  a  powerful,  familiar  scent, 
but  one  which  is  rare  in  Germany,  arrested  my 
attention.  I  came  to  a  standstill,  and  beheld  by 
the  side  of  the  road  a  small  bed  of  hemp.  Its 
fragrance  of  the  steppes  had  instantaneously  re- 
minded me  of  my  native  land  and  aroused  in  my 
.soul  a  passionate  longing  for  it.  I  wanted  to 
breathe  the  Russian  air,  to  walk  on  Russian  soil. 
"  What  am  I  doing  here,  why  am  I  dawdling  in 
foreign  lands,  among  strangers?"  I  exclaimed; 
the  deadly  burden,  which  I  had  felt  at  my  heart, 
was  suddenly  merged,  in  bitter,  burning  emotion. 
I  reached  home  in  an  entirely  different  mood 
from  that  of  the  day  before.  I  felt  almost  in- 
censrd,  and  for  a  long  time  could  not  recover 
my  composure.     An   irritation  which   1    myself 

203 


ASYA 

found  incx)mprehensible  was  rending  me  asunder. 
At  last  I  sat  down,  and  calling  to  mind  my  crafty 
M'idow  (each  one  of  my  days  wound  up  with 
an  official  calling  to  mind  of  that  ladj"),  I  got 
out  one  of  her  notes.  But  I  did  not  even  open 
it;  my  thoughts  immediately  took  another  direc- 
tion. I  began  to  think  ....  to  think  of  Asya. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  Gagin,  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation,  had  hinted  to  me  at  some  difficulties, 
some  impediments  to  his  return  to  Russia.  .  .  . 
"  Is  she  really  his  sister?  "  I  ejaculated  aloud. 

I  undressed,  got  into  bed,  and  tried  to  get  to 
sleep ;  but  an  hour  later  I  was  again  sitting  on  my 
bed,  and  again  thinking  about  that  "  capricious 
little  girl  with  the  strained  laugh."  .  .  .  .  "  She 
is  formed  like  the  little  Galatea  by  Raphael,  in 
the  Farnese  gallery,"  — I  whispered:  —  "  yes,  and 
she  is  not  his  sister.  ..." 

And  the  widow's  note  lay  quite  quietly  on  the 
floor,  gleaming  whitely  in  the  rays  of  the  moon. 


On  the  following  morning  I  again  went  to  L. 
I  assured  myself  that  I  wanted  to  meet  Gagin; 
but  I  was  secretly  longing  to  see  what  Asya  would 
do,— whether  she  would  "  play  tricks,"  as  on  the 
day  before.  I  found  them  both  in  the  parlour, 
and,  strange  to  say— perhaps  because  I  had  been 

264 


ASYA 

thinking  a  great  deal  about  Russia  during  the 
night  and  morning— Asya  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
thorough  Russian  girl,  and  a  low-class  girl,  al- 
most a  chambermaid,  at  that.  She  wore  a  poor 
little  old  gown,  had  brushed  her  hair  behind  her 
ears,  and  sat  immovably  at  the  window,  em- 
broidering at  a  frame,  modestly,  quietly,  as 
though  she  had  never  done  anything  else  in  all 
her  life.  She  said  hardly  anything,  gazed  calmly 
at  her  work,  and  her  features  had  assumed  such 
an  insignificant,  every-day  expression,  that  I  was 
involuntarily  reminded  of  our  home-bred  Katyas 
and  iSlashas.  To  complete  the  hkeness,  she  be- 
gan to  sing  in  an  undertone:  "  ^Mother  dear,  be- 
loved one."  I  glanced  at  her  sallow,  extinguished 
little  face,  recalled  my  musings  of  the  night  be- 
fore, and  felt  sorry  for  something.  The  weather 
was  magnificent.  Gagin  announced  to  us  that 
lie  w^as  going  that  day  to  make  a  sketch  from 
nature ;  I  asked  him  if  he  would  allow  me  to  ac- 
company him,  whether  I  should  be  in  his  way. 

"On  the  contrary,"— he  replied:— "  you  may 
be  able  to  give  me  some  good  advice." 

He  donned  a  round  hat,  a  la  Van  Dyck,  and  a 
blouse,  took  a  ])ortfolio  under  his  arm,  and  set 
out ;  I  ambled  after  him.  Asya  remained  at  home. 
Gagin,  as  he  was  de])arting,  asked  her  to  see  that 
the  soup  was  not  too  thin:  Asya  ])romised  to 
visit  the  kitchen.  Gagin  made  his  way  to  the 
valley    with    which    I    was    already    acquainted, 

20.5 


ASYA 

seated  liiinself  on  a  stone,  and  began  to  sketch 
an  aged,  hollow  oak,  with  widely-spreading  roots. 
I  threw  myself  down  on  the  grass,  and  pulled 
out  a  book;  but  I  did  not  read  two  pages,  and 
he  merely  daubed  his  paper;  we  spent  the  time 
chiefly  in  argument;  and,  so  far  as  I  can  judge, 
we  argued  with  considerable  cleverness  and  pene- 
tration, as  to  the  precise  way  in  which  one  should 
work,  what  should  be  avoided,  what  rules  should 
be  observed,  and  precisely  what  is  the  significance 
of  art  in  our  age.  Gagin  decided  at  last  that  he 
"  was  not  in  the  mood  to-day,"  lay  down  beside 
me,  and  then  our  youthful  speeches  began  to  flow 
freely, — now  fervid,  now  thoughtful,  now  rap- 
turous, but  almost  always  the  obscure  speeches 
wherein  the  Russian  man  is  so  fond  of  pouring 
himself  out.  After  having  talked  to  satiety,  and 
filled  with  a  sense  of  contentment,  we  returned 
home.  I  found  Asya  precisely  the  same  as  I  had 
left  her ;  try  as  I  would  to  watch  her,  not  a  shade 
of  coquetry,  not  a  sign  of  a  deliberately -assumed 
role  did  I  detect  in  her;  on  this  occasion,  it  was 
impossible  to  accuse  her  of  lack  of  naturalness. 

"A-ha!" — said  Gagin:  —  "She  has  imposed 
fasting  and  penance  upon  herself!  " 

Toward  evening  she  yawned  several  times  un- 
aff'ectedly,  and  went  off  earl}'^  to  her  own  room. 
I  soon  took  leave  of  Gagin,  and  on  my  way  home, 
I  no  longer  meditated  about  anything:  that  day 
had  passed  in  sober  sensations.  I  remember,  how- 

266 


ASYA 

ever,  that  as  I  got  into  bed  I  involuntarily  said 
aloud : 

"What  a  chameleon  that  young  girl  is!"— 
And  after  reflecting  a  while  I  added:  —  "And 
all  the  same,  she  is  not  liis  sister." 


VI 

Two  whole  weeks  passed.  I  visited  the  Gagins 
every  dav.  Asva  seemed  to  shun  me  but  no  loncjer 
indulged  in  a  single  one  of  the  pranks  which  had 
so  astounded  me  during  the  first  days  of  our 
acquaintance.  She  appeared  to  be  secretly  em- 
bittered or  discomfited;  she  laughed  less.  I 
watched  her  with  curiosity. 

She  spoke  French  and  German  fairly  well ;  but 
in  everything  it  was  apparent  that  she  had  been 
in  feminine  hands  since  her  infancy,  and  had  re- 
ceived a  strange,  an  unusual  bringing-up,  which 
had  notliing  in  common  with  the  breeding  of  Ga- 
gin.  Despite  his  hat  a  la  Van  Dyck,  and  his 
blouse,  he  exhaled  the  soft,  half -enervated  atmo- 
sphere of  the  Great  Russian  nobleman,  but  she  did 
not  resemble  a  young  lady  of  noble  birth;  in  all 
her  movements  there  was  sometliing  uneasy;  she 
was  a  ^^■il(l  tree  wliich  liad  only  recently  been 
grafted;  she  was  wine  still  in  the  process  of  fer- 
mentation. 13y  nature  shy  and  timid,  slie  was 
vexed  at  her  own  bash  fulness,  and  with  irritation 

207 


ASYA 

she  made  desperate  efforts  to  be  bold  and  at  her 
ease,  in  which  slie  was  not  always  successful. 
Several  times  1  began  to  talk  to  her  about  her 
life  in  Russia,  about  her  past;  she  answered  my 
queries  reluctantly.  I  learned,  however,  that  for 
a  long  time  before  her  departure  abroad,  she 
had  lived  in  the  country.  I  once  caught  her  alone, 
over  a  book.  With  her  head  resting  on  botli 
hands  and  her  fingers  deeply  buried  in  her  hair, 
she  was  devouring  the  lines  with  her  eyes. 

"Bravo!" — I  said,  stepping  up  to  her: 
— "How  diligent  you  are!" 

She  raised  her  head  with  dignity  and  gazed 
sternly  at  me. 

"  You  think  that  I  know  how  to  do  nothing  but 
laugh,"  —  she  said,  and  started  to  leave  the 
room.  .  . 

I  glanced  at  the  title  of  the  book ;  it  was  some 
French  romance  or  other. 

"  But  I  cannot  commend  j'our  choice," — I  re- 
marked. 

"  'T  is  reading  all  the  same!  "  —  she  exclaimed; 
and  flinging  the  book  on  the  table,  she  added:  — 
"  I  had  better  go  and  play  the  fool,"— and  ran 
off  into  the  garden. 

That  same  day,  in  the  evening,  I  was  reading 
to  Gagin  "  Herman  and  Dorothea."  At  first 
Asya  only  darted  past  us,  then  suddenly  she  came 
to  a  halt,  lent  an  ear,  quietly  sat  down  beside 
me,  and  listened  to  the  reading  to  the  end.    On 

268 


ASYA  (^ 

« 

the  following  da}'  I  again  failed  to  recognise 
her,  until  I  guessed  what  had  suddenly  got  into 
her  head:  to  be  domestic  and  sedate,  like  Doro- 
thea. In  a  word,  she  was  to  me  a  semi-enigmat- 
ical being.  Vain  to  the  last  degree,  she  attracted 
me  even  when  I  was  angry  with  her.  Of  one 
thing;  onlv  I  became  more  and  more  convinced, 
namely,  that  she  was  not  Gagin's  sister.  He  did 
not  treat  her  in  brotherly  fashion;  he  was  too 
affectionate,  too  lenient,  and  at  the  same  time, 
rather  constrained. 

A  strange  circumstance,  apparently,  confirmed 
my  suspicions. 

One  evening,  as  I  was  approaching  the  vine- 
yard, where  the  Gagins  lived,  I  found  the  gate 
locked.  Without  thinking  long  about  the  mat- 
ter, I  made  my  way  to  a  breach  in  the  fence, 
which  I  had  previously  noted,  and  leaped  over  it. 
Xot  far  from  that  spot,  on  one  side  of  the  path, 
stood  a  small  acacia  arbour.  I  came  on  a  level 
with  it,  and  was  on  the  point  of  passing  it  ...  . 
when  suddenly  Asya's  voice  struck  my  ear,  utter- 
ing the  following  words  with  heat  and  through 
tears : 

"  Xo;  I  won't  love  anybody  except  thee,  no,  no, 
I  will  love  only  thee — and  forever." 

"Stop,  Asya,  calm  thyself,"— said  Gagin:  — 
"  tlion  knowest  that  I  believe  thee." 

Their  voices  resounded  in  tlie  arbour.  I  caught 
a  sight  of  both  of  them  through  the  interlacing 


2G^ 


ASYA 

brandies  which  were  not  thick.  They  did  not 
notice  me. 

"  Thee,  thee  alone," — she  repeated,  throwing 
herself  on  his  neck,  and  beginning  to  kiss  him 
with  convulsive  sobs,  and  to  press  herself  to  his 
breast. 

"  Enough,  enough," — he  repeated,  passing  his 
hand  lightly  over  her  hair. 

For  several  moments  I  stood  motionless.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  I  started. — "  Shall  I  go  to  them?  .  .  . 
On  no  account!  " — flashed  through  my  mind. 
With  swift  strides  I  retiu'ned  to  the  fence,  sprang 
over  it  into  the  road,  and  set  off  homeward  almost 
on  a  run.  I  smiled,  rubbed  my  hands,  marvelled 
at  the  accident  which  had  suddenly  confirmed  my 
surmises  (not  for  one  moment  did  I  doubt  their 
correctness),  and,  yet  I  felt  very  bitter  at  heart. 
"  How  well  they  understand  how  to  dissimu- 
late! "  I  thought.  "  But  with  what  object?  What 
possesses  them  to  mystify  me?  I  had  not  ex- 
pected that  from  him.  .  .  .  And  what  a  senti- 
mental explanation ! " 

VII 

I  SLEPT  badly,  and  rose  early  the  next  morning, 
strapped  my  travelling  wallet  to  my  back,  and, 
having  informed  my  landlady  that  she  need  not 
expect  me  back  for  the  night,  I  set  off  on  foot  for 
the  mountains,  up  the  little  river,  on  which  Z. 

270 


ASYA 

lies.  These  mountains,  a  spur  of  the  chain  called 
The  Dog's  Back  (Hundsriick),  are  very  curious 
from  a  geological  point  of  view;  they  are  espe- 
cially noteworthy  for  the  regularity  and  j^urity 
of  the  basaltic  layers;  but  I  was  in  no  mood  for 
geological  observations.  I  could  not  account  to 
myself  for  what  was  in  progress  within  me;  one 
feeling  was  clear  to  me:  a  disinclination  to  meet 
the  Gagins.  I  assured  myself  that  the  sole  cause 
for  my  sudden  dislike  to  them  was  anger  at  their 
duplicity.  Who  had  forced  them  to  give  them- 
selves out  for  relatives?  However,  I  tried  not 
to  think  of  them ;  I  wandered,  without  haste,  over 
the  mountains  and  valleys,  I  tarried  in  village 
eating-houses,  peaceably  chatting  with  landlords 
and  patrons,  or  lay  on  a  flat,  sun-heated  stone, 
and  watched  the  clouds  sail  past ;  luckily  the  wea- 
ther was  wonderfull}'  fine.  In  such  occupations  I 
spent  three  days,  and  not  without  satisfaction, — 
although  my  heart  was  heavy  at  times.  The  trend 
of  my  thoughts  was  exactly  in  harmony  with  the 
calm  nature  of  that  locality. 

I  surrendered  m\^self  to  the  quiet  plan  of  ac- 
cident, to  chance  impressions:  succeeding  one  an- 
other without  liaste,  they  flowed  through  my  soul, 
leaving  in  it  at  last  one  general  impression,  in 
which  was  merged  everything  I  had  seen,  felt, 
and  heard  during  those  three  days — everything: 
the  delicate  odour  of  resin  in  tlie  forests,  the  cry 
and  pecking  of  the  wood-peckers;  the  incessant 

271 


ASYA 

l)al)l)lin«T  of  bri<>ht  little  brooks  with  spotted  trout 
on  their  sandy  bottoms;  the  not  too  bold  outlines 
of  the  hills;  the  frowning  elifFs;  clean  little  ham- 
lets with  time-honoured,  ancient  churches  and 
trees;  storks  in  the  meadow;  cosey  mills  with 
briskly-revolving  wheels ;  the  cheerful  faces  of  the 
natives,  their  blue  shirts  and  grey  stockings; 
creaking,  sluggish  wains  drawn  by  fat  horses, 
and  sometimes  by  cows;  j^oung,  long-haired  way- 
farers on  the  clean  roads,  planted  with  apple  and 
pear-trees.  .  .  . 

Even  now  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  recall  my 
impressions  of  that  time.  A  greeting  to  thee, 
modest  nook  of  the  German  land,  with  thy  in- 
genuous satisfaction;  with  traces  everywhere 
about  of  industrious  hands,  of  patient  though 
unhurried  toil.  ...  A  greeting  and  peace  to 
thee ! 

I  reached  home  at  the  very  end  of  the  third 
day.  I  have  forgotten  to  say  that,  out  of  vexa- 
tion toward  the  Gagins,  I  had  made  an  effort  to 
resurrect  within  me  the  image  of  the  hard-hearted 
widow; — but  my  efforts  remained  fruitless.  I 
remember  that  when  I  began  to  meditate  about 
h.er,  I  beheld  before  me  a  little  peasant  girl,  five 
years  of  age,  with  a  round  little  face,  and  in- 
nocently protruding  eyes.  She  looked  at  me  in 
such  a  childishly-simple  wa3^  ...  I  felt  ashamed 
of  her  pure  gaze,  I  did  not  want  to  lie  in  her 
presence,  and  instantly,  finally,  and  forever  I 

27? 


ASYA 

made  my  farewell  bow  to  the  former  object  of 
my  affections. 

At  home  I  found  a  note  from  Gagin.  He  was 
surprised  at  the  suddenness  of  my  decision,  up- 
braided me  for  not  having  taken  him  with  me, 
and  begged  me  to  come  to  them  as  soon  as  I  re- 
turned. I  read  this  note  with  displeasure,  but 
on  the  following  day  I  went  to  L. 


VIII 

Gagin  welcomed  me  in  friendly  fashion,  over- 
whelmed me  with  affectionate  reproaches;  but 
xisya,  as  though  of  dehberate  purpose,  no  sooner 
caught  sight  of  me,  than  she  burst  out  laughing 
loudly  without  any  cause  and,  according  to  her 
wont,  immediately  ran  away.  Gagin  was  dis- 
concerted, muttered  after  her  that  she  was  crazy, 
and  entreated  me  to  pardon  her.  I  confess  that 
I  had  become  greatly  incensed  at  Asya;  even 
without  that  I  was  not  feeling  like  myself,  and 
here  again  were  that  unnatural  laughter,  those 
strange  grimaces.  But  I  pretended  that  I  had 
not  noticed  anything,  and  communicated  to  Ga- 
gin the  details  of  my  little  trip.  He  narrated  to 
me  what  he  had  been  doing  in  my  absence.  But 
our  speeches  did  not  get  on  well;  iVsya  entered 
the  room,  and  then  ran  out  again;  at  last  I  an- 
nounced that    I    had   some  work   uhich   must  be 

273 


ASYA 

done  in  haste,  and  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  re- 
turn home.  At  first  Gagin  tried  to  detain  me; 
then,  after  looking  intently  at  me,  he  offered 
to  aceompany  me.  In  the  anteroom  Asya  sud- 
denly came  up  to  me  and  offered  me  her  hand; 
I  clasped  her  fingers  lightly  and  barely  bowed  to 
her.  Gagin  and  I  got  ourselves  ferried  across 
the  Rhine  and,  as  we  passed  my  favourite  ash- 
tree  with  the  little  statue  of  the  Madonna,  we  sat 
down  on  the  bench  to  admire  the  view.  There- 
upon, a  remarkable  conversation  ensued  between 
us. 

At  fu"st  we  exchanged  a  few  words,  then  fell 
silent,  as  we  gazed  at  the  gleaming  river. 

"  Tell  me," — suddenly  began  Gagin,  with  his 
habitual  smile: — "  what  is  your  opinion  of  Asya? 
She  must  seem  rather  queer  to  you,  does  n't  she?  " 

"  Yes," — I  replied,  not  without  some  surprise. 
I  had  not  expected  that  he  would  speak  of  her. 

"  One  must  know  her  well  in  order  to  judge 
her.  She  has  a  very  kind  heart,  but  a  wretched 
head.  It  is  difficult  to  get  along  with  her.  How- 
ever, it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  blame 
her,  if  you  knew  her  history.  .  .  ." 

"Her  history,"  — I  interrupted.  ...  "Is  n't 
she  your  .  .  .  ." 

Gagin  darted  a  glance  at  me. 

"  Can  it  be  that  you  think  she  is  not  my  sister? 
....  Yes,"— he  continued,  without  paying  any 
heed  to  my  confusion:—"  she  really  is  my  sister; 

274 


ASYA 

she  is  my  father's  daughter.    Hearken  to  me.    I 
feel  confidence  in  you,  and  I  will  tell  you  all. 

"  iVIy  father  was  a  verj^  kind-hearted,  clever, 
cultured — and  unhappy  man.  Fate  treated  him 
no  worse  than  she  treats  many  others ;  but  he  was 
unable  to  withstand  her  first  blow.  He  married 
early,  for  love;  his  wife,  my  mother,  died  very 
soon;  she  left  me,  a  baby  of  six  months.  My 
father  carried  me  off  to  the  country,  and  for 
twelve  whole  years  never  went  anywhere.  He 
busied  himself  with  my  education,  and  would 
never  have  parted  with  me  had  not  his  brother, 
my  blood-uncle,  come  to  the  country.  This  uncle 
resided  permanently  in  Petersburg  and  occupied 
a  pretty  high  post.  He  persuaded  my  father  to 
surrender  me  into  his  hands,  as  my  father  would 
not  consent  to  leave  the  country  on  any  terms 
whatsoever.  3Iy  uncle  represented  to  him  that 
it  was  injurious  for  a  boy  of  my  age  to  live  in 
absolute  isolation;  that  with  such  an  eternally 
melancholy  and  taciturn  preceptor  as  my  father, 
I  would  infallibly  fall  behind  the  lads  of  my  own 
age,  and  my  very  disposition  might  be  ruined  into 
the  bargain.  For  a  long  time  my  father  com- 
bated his  brother's  admonitions,  but  yielded  at 
last.  I  wept  at  parting  with  my  father;  I  loved 
him,  although  I  had  never  seen  a  smile  on  his 
face  ....  but  when  I  got  to  Petersburg  I 
speedily  forgot  our  gloomy  and  cheerless  nest. 
I    entered   the   yunkers'    school,   and    from   the 

275 


ASYA 

school  graduated  into  a  regiment  of  the  Guards. 
Every  year  I  made  a  journey  to  the  country  for 
several  weeks,  and  with  every  passing  year  I 
found  my  father  more  and  more  morose,  en- 
grossed in  himself,  and  })ensive  to  the  point  of 
timidity.  He  went  to  church  every  day,  and  had 
almost  unlearned  the  art  of  speaking. 

"  During  one  of  my  visits  (I  was  then  over 
twenty  years  of  age ) ,  I  beheld  for  the  first  time 
in  our  house  a  thin,  black-eyed  little  girl,  ten 
3''ears  of  age — Asya.  My  father  said  that  she 
was  an  orphan  whom  he  had  taken  to  rear — that 
was  precisely  the  way  he  expressed  himself.  I 
paid  no  particular  attention  to  her;  she  was  shy, 
alert,  and  taciturn  as  a  little  wild  beast,  and  as 
soon  as  I  entered  my  father's  favourite  room, 
the  huge,  gloomy  chamber  where  my  mother  had 
died,  and  where  candles  were  lighted  even  in  the 
daytime,  she  immediately  hid  herself  behind  his 
Voltaire  chair,  or  behind  a  bookcase.  It  so  hap- 
pened, that  during  the  three  or  four  years  which 
followed,  the  duties  of  my  service  prevented  my 
going  to  the  country.  I  received  one  brief  letter 
from  my  father  each  month;  he  rarely  alluded 
to  Asya,  and  then  only  in  passing.  He  was  al- 
ready over  fifty,  but  he  still  seemed  a  young  man. 

"Picture  to  j^ourself  my  consternation:  sud- 
denly, without  a  suspicion  on  my  part,  I  received 
from  the  agent  a  letter  in  which  he  informed  me 
of  my  father's  mortal  illness,  and  entreated  me  to 

276 


ASYA 

come  as  speedily  as  possible  if  I  wished  to  bid 
him  farewell.  I  rushed  off  at  headlong  speed, 
and  found  my  father  alive,  but  already  at  his  last 
gasp.  He  was  extremely  delighted  to  see  me, 
embraced  me  with  his  emaciated  arms,  gazed  long 
into  my  eyes  with  a  look  which  was  not  precisely 
scrutinising  nor  yet  precisely  one  of  entreaty,  j 
and  after  having  exacted  from  me  a  promise  that 
I  would  fulfil  his  last  request,  he  ordered  his  old 
valet  to  bring  Asya.  The  old  man  led  her  in; 
she  could  hardly  stand  on  her  feet,  and  was 
trembling  all  over. 

"  '  Here,'— said  my  father  to  me  with  an  effort: 
— '  I  bequeath  to  thee  my  daughter— thy  sister. 
Thou  wilt  learn  all  from  Yakoff,'— he  added, 
pointing  at  the  valet. 

"  Asva  burst  out  sobbing  and  fell  face  down- 
ward  on  the  bed.  .  .  .  Half  an  hour  later,  my 
father  expired. 

"  This  is  what  I  learned:  Asya  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  mv  father  and  of  mv  mother's  former  maid, 
Tatyana.  I  vividly  remember  that  Tatyana;  I 
remember  her  tall,  graceful  figure,  her  comely, 
regular,  intelligent  face,  with  large,  dark  eyes. 
She  bore  the  reputation  of  ])eing  a  haughty  and 
una])i)roac]ial)le  girl.  So  far  as  I  was  able  to 
make  out  from  Vakoff's  respectful  reticences, 
my  father  had  entered  into  relations  witli  her 
several  vears  after  mv  mother's  deatli.  Tatvana 
was  no  longer  living  in  the  manor-house  at  that 

277 


ASYA 

time,  but  in  tlie  cottage  of  a  married  sister  of  hers, 
the  herd-woman.  ]My  father  became  strongly 
attached  to  her,  and  after  my  departure  from 
the  country  he  had  even  wished  to  marry  her,  but 
she  herself  had  not  consented  to  become  his  wife, 
in  spite  of  jiis  entreaties. 

The  late  Tatyana  Vasilievna,' — concluded 
Yakoff,  as  he  stood  by  the  door  with  his  hands 
behind  him,  — '  was  sagacious  in  everything,  and 
did  not  wish  to  disgrace  your  papa.  — "  What  sort 
of  a  wife  am  I  for  him?  "  says  she.  "  What  sort 
of  a  gentlewoman  am  I?" — That  was  the  way 
she  deigned  to  s])eak, — and  she  said  it  in  my 
presence,  sir.' — Tatyana  was  not  even  willing  to 
remove  to  our  house,  and  continued  to  live  with 
her  sister,  along  with  Asya.  In  my  childhood 
I  had  seen  Tatyana  only  on  festival  days,  in 
church;  with  her  head  bound  up  in  a  dark  ker- 
chief, and  a  yellow  shawl  on  her  shoulders,  she 
stood  among  the  crowd  near  a  window, — her 
severe  profile  was  distinctly  defined  against  the 
light  glass, — and  prayed  with  submission  and 
dignity,  making  lowly  reverences  in  old-fash- 
ioned style.  When  my  uncle  carried  me  off, 
Asya  was  only  two  years  old,  and  in  her  ninth 
year  she  lost  her  mother. 

"  As  soon  as  Tatyana  died,  my  father  took  Asya 
to  himself  in  the  house.  He  had  previously  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  have  her  with  him,  but  Tatyana 
had  refused  this  also.    Imagine  to  yourself  what 

278 


ASYA 

must  have  been  Asya's  sensations  when  she  was 
taken  to  the  master.  To  this  day  she  is  unable 
to  forget  that  moment,  when  they  garbed  her  for 
the  first  time  in  a  silken  frock  and  kissed  her 
hand.  Her  mother,  as  long  as  she  lived,  had 
reared  her  very  strictly;  with  her  father  she  en- 
joyed complete  freedom.  He  was  her  teacher; 
she  saw  no  one  excepting  him.  He  did  not  spoil 
her— that  is  to  say,  he  did  not  fondle  her;  but 
he  loved  her  passionately,  and  never  denied  her 
anything;  in  his  soul  he  regarded  himself  as  cul- 
pable toward  her.  Asya  speedily  grasped  the 
fact  that  she  was  the  principal  personage  in  the 
house;  she  knew  that  the  master  was  her  father; 
but  she  did  not  so  speedily  comprehend  her  false 
position;  vanity  was  strongly  developed  in  her, 
and  distrust  also;  bad  habits  became  rooted,  sim- 
plicity vanished.  She  wished  (she  herself  once 
confessed  this  to  me)  to  make  the  whole  world 
forget  her  extraction;  she  was  ashamed  of  her 
mother  and  asjiamed  of  her  shame,  and  proud  of 
l^^\  ou  see  that  she  knew  and  does  know  a  great 
deal  which  one  ought  not  to  know  at  her  age. 
....  But  is  she  to  blame?  Young  forces  had 
begun  to  ferment  in  her,  her  blood  was  seething, 
but  there  was  not  a  single  hand  near  by  to  guide 
her.  She  was  absolutely  independent  in  everj'^- 
thing!  And  is  that  easy  to  endure?  She  wanted 
to  be  not  inferior  to  other  young  ladies  of  noble 
birth ;  she  flung  herself  upon  books.     Could  any- 

279 


ASYA 

tiling  judicious  come  of  that?  The  life  irregu- 
hirly  begun  took  an  irreguhir  turn,  but  her  heart 
was  not  spoiled,  her  mind  remained  intact. 

"  And  thus  I,  a  young  fellow  of  twenty,  found 
myself  with  a  girl  of  thirteen  on  my  hands!  Dur- 
ing the  first  few  days  after  my  father's  death, 
she  was  seized  with  a  fever  at  the  very  sound  of 
my  voice,  my  caresses  inspired  her  with  aversion, 
and  it  was  only  gradually,  little  by  little,  that  she 
grew  accustomed  to  me.  Truth  to  tell,  later  on, 
when  she  became  convinced  that  I  really  did 
recognise  her  as  my  sister,  and  loved  her  as  a 
sister,  she  became  passionately  attached  to  me; 
none  of  her  emotions  go  by  halves. 

"  I  took  her  to  Petersburg.  Painful  as  it  was 
for  me  to  part  from  her,  I  could  not  possibly  live 
with  her ;  I  placed  her  in  one  of  the  best  boarding- 
schools.  Asya  understood  the  necessity  for  our 
parting,  but  began  by  falling  ill  and  nearly  dy- 
ing. Then  she  summoned  her  patience,  and  lived 
through  four  years  in  the  boarding-school;  but, 
contrary  to  my  expectations,  she  remained  almost 
exactly  the  same  as  she  liad  been  before.  The 
principal  of  the  boarding-school  made  frequent 
complaints  to  me  about  her:  'And  it  is  impossible 
to  punish  her,'  — she  said  to  me:  — 'and  she  does 
not  yield  to  kindness.' 

"Asya  was  extremely  quick  of  understanding, 
and  studied  well,  better  than  all  the  rest;  but  she 
absolutely   refused   to   conform   to   the   general 

280 


ASYA 

standard,  became  stubborn,  and  looked  wild.  .  .  . 
I  could  not  blame  her  over-much ;  in  her  position 
she  was  bound  either  to  cringe  or  stand  aloof. 
Out  of  all  her  companions  she  made  friends  with 
one  only— a  homely,  intimidated,  poor  girl.  The 
other  young  gentlewomen  with  whom  she  was 
being  reared,  mostly  from  good  famihes,  did  not 
like  her,  and  wounded  and  stung  her  to  the  best 
of  their  ability.  Asya  did  not  yield  to  them  by 
so  much  as  a  hair's  breadth.  One  day,  during  a 
lesson  in  religion,^  the  teacher  began  to  speak  of 
vices.  '  Flattery  and  cowardice  are  the  worst 
vices,'  said  Asya  aloud.  In  a  word,  she  continued 
to  pursue  her  own  road;  only  her  manners  im- 
proved;—although,  apparently,  she  is  not  a  suc- 
cess in  that  respect  either. 

"  At  last  she  completed  her  seventeenth  year; 
it  was  impossible  to  leave  her  in  the  boarding- 
school  any  longer.  I  found  myself  in  a  rather 
difficult  position.  Suddenly  a  happy  thought  oc- 
curred to  me :  to  resign  from  the  service  and  travel 
abroad  for  a  year  or  two,  taking  Asya  with  me. 
No  sooner  thought  than  done;  and  here  we  are, 
she  and  I,  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  where  I  am 
trying  to  occupy  myself  with  painting,  while  she 
....  j)lays  pranks  and  behaves  queerly  as  of 
old.  But  now,  I  ho]:)e,  you  will  not  judge  lier  too 
severely;  and  she  — although  she  pretends  that  she 

1  *'  The  law  of  God  "  is  the  Russian  phrase.     It  occupies 
a  prominent  place  in  all  schools.  — Tea nslator. 

281 


ASYA 

does  not  care  a  jot — values  every  one's  opinion, 
yours  in  particular." 

And  af^ain  Gagin  smiled  with  his  tranquil  smile. 
I  clasped  his  hand  warmly. 

"  xVll  tliis  is  so," — Gaf]^in  began  again:  — "  but 
I  shall  get  into  difficulties  with  her.  She  is  regu- 
lar powder.  So  far,  no  one  has  struck  her  fancy; 
but  w^oe  is  me  if  she  should  fall  in  love  with  any 
one!  I  never  know  how  to  treat  her.  The  other 
day  this  is  what  she  took  into  lier  head:  she  sud- 
denly began  to  assert  that  I  had  grown  colder 
toward  her  than  of  old,  that  she  loved  me  alone. 
....  And  thereupon,  she  fell  to  weeping  so  vio- 
lently .  .  .  ." 

"  So  that  is  what  .  ..."  I  began,  and  bit  my 
tongue. 

"  But  tell  me,  pray," — I  asked  Gagin,  "  we  are 
speaking  frankly  to  each  other, — is  it  possible 
that,  up  to  this  time,  she  has  not  taken  a  fancy 
to  any  one?  She  must  have  seen  young  men  in 
Petersburg." 

"  She  did  not  like  them  at  all.  No,  Asya  must 
needs  have  a  hero,  a  remarkable  man — or  a  pic- 
turesque shepherd  in  a  mountain  gorge.  But  I 
have  chattered  too  much  with  you,  I  have  de- 
tained you," — he  added,  rising. 

"See  here," — I  began: — "let  's  go  to  your 
house;  I  don't  want  to  go  home." 

"  And  how  about  your  work?  " 

I   made  no  reply;   Gagin   laughed  good-hu- 

282 


ASYA 

mouredly,  and  we  returned  to  L.  At  the  sight 
of  the  f amihar  vineyard  and  the  little  white  house 
on  the  top  of  the  hill,  I  experienced  a  certain 
sweetness,  —  precisely  that,  sweetness— in  my 
heart :  it  was  as  though  honey  were  silently  flow- 
ing through  it.  I  felt  at  ease  since  Gagin's  nar- 
rative. 


IX 

AsYA  met  us  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  house; 
I  expected  another  laugh ;  but  she  came  out  to  us 
all  pale,  silent,  and  with  downcast  eyes. 

"  Here  he  is  again,"  — said  Gagin:  — "  and  ob- 
serve, he  wanted  to  come  back  himself." 

Asya  darted  an  inquiring  glance  at  me.  I, 
in  my  turn,  offered  her  mj'  hand,  and  this  time 
warmly  grasped  her  cold  little  fingers.  I  felt 
very  sorry  for  her;  I  now  understood  much  in 
her  which  had  previously  thrown  me  off  the  track ; 
— her  inward  uneasiness,  her  ignorance  of  how  to 
behave  herself,  her  desire  to  show  off^,  — all  had 
become  clear  to  me.  I  had  taken  a  look  into  that 
soul;  a  secret  burden  oppressed  her  constantly, 
her  inexperienced  vanity  was  tremulously  per- 
plexed and  throb})ing,  but  everything  in  her  being 
aspired  toward  truth.  I  understood  why  that 
strange  young  girl  attracted  me;  she  attracted 
me  not  alone  by  the  half -savage  charm  diffused 
over  all  her  slender  body :  her  soul  pleased  me. 

283 


ASYA 


Gji^-in  bcfji-an  to  runiniage  amonf^  his  draw- 
ings; I  proposed  to  Asya  that  she  sliouhl  take  a 
stroll  with  nie  in  the  vineyard.  She  immediately 
assented,  with  blithe  and  almost  submissive 
:il;\crity.  We  descended  half-way  down  the 
hill,  and  seated  ourselves  on  a  broad  slab  of 
stone. 

"  And  were  n't  you  bored  without  us?"— be- 
gan Asya. 

"And  were  you  bored  without  me?" — I  in- 
quired. 

Asya  darted  a  sidelong  glance  at  me. 

"  Yes," — she  replied.  —  "  Is  it  nice  in  the  moun- 
tains? " — she  immediately  continued:  —  "  are  they 
high?  Higher  than  the  clouds?  Tell  me  what 
you  saw.  You  told  my  brother,  but  I  did  not 
hear  anything." 

"  Why  did  you  go  awaj''?  " — I  remarked. 

"  I  went  away  ....  because  ....  I  won't  go 
away  now,"  —  she  added  with  confiding  affection 
in  her  voice: — "you  were  angry  to-day." 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you." 

"  Why,  pray?  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  you  were  angry,  and  went 
away  angr5\  I  was  gr.eatly  vexed  that  you  went 
away  in  that  manner,  and  I  am  so  glad  that  you 
have  come  back." 

"  And  I  am  glad  that  I  have  come  back,"— 
said  I. 

284i 


ASYA 

Asya  shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  children  often 
do  when  they  feel  at  ease. 

"Oh,  I  know  how  to  guess!"— she  went  on: 
—  "I  used  to  be  able  to  know,  from  papa's  cough 
alone  in  the  next  room,  whether  he  was  pleased 
with  me  or  not." 

Up  to  that  day  Asya  had  never  spoken  to  me  of 
her  father.  I  was  struck  by  this.  "  Did  you  love 
your  papa?  "  —  I  said,  and  suddenly,  to  my  in- 
tense vexation,  I  felt  that  I  was  blushing. 

She  made  no  reply,  and  blushed  also.  Both  of 
us  remained  silent  for  a  while.  Far  away  on  the 
Rhine  a  steamer  was  saihng  and  emitting  smoke. 
We  began  to  gaze  at  it. 

"  But  why  don't  you  tell  me  about  your  jour- 
ney? " — whispered  Asya. 

"  Why  did  you  burst  out  laughing  to-day,  as 
soon  as  you  caught  sight  of  me?  "  —  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  myself.  Sometimes  I  feel  like 
crying,  yet  I  laugh.  You  must  not  condemn  me 
....  for  what  I  do.  Akh,  by  the  way,  what  is 
tliat  legend  about  the  Lorelei?  That  is  her  rock 
wliich  we  can  see,  is  n't  it?  They  say  that  she 
drowned  every  one  at  first,  but  when  she  fell  in 
love  she  threw  herself  into  the  water.  I  like  tliat 
legend.  Frau  Luise  tells  me  all  sorts  of  legends. 
Frau  I^uise  has  a  black  cat  with  yellow  eyes.  .  .  ." 

Asya  raised  lier  liead  and  shook  back  her  curls. 

"  Akli,  I  feel  so  comfortable,"  — she  said. 

At  that  moment,  abrupt,  monotonous  sounds 

283    ' 


ASYA 

were  wafted  to  our  ears.  Hundreds  of  voices 
were  repeating-  a  prayerful  chant  simultaneously, 
and  with  measured  pauses;  a  throng  of  pilgrims 
was  winding  along  the  road  below,  with  crosses 
and  banners.  .  .  . 

"  I  'd  like  to  join  them," — said  Asya,  as  she 
listened  to  the  bursts  of  voices  which  were  grad- 
ually dying  away. 

"  Are  you  so  devout?  " 

"  I  'd  like  to  go  somewhere  far  away,  to  praj^ 
on  a  difficult  exploit,"  —  she  went  on.  — "  Other- 
wise, the  days  go  by,  life  will  pass,  and  what  have 
we  done?  " 

"You  are  ambitious," — I  remarked: — "you 
do  not  wish  to  live  in  vain,  you  want  to  leave  a 
trail  of  glory  behind  you.  .  .  ." 

"  And  is  that  impossible?  " 

"  Impossible,"  I  came  near  repeating.  .  .  . 
But  I  glanced  at  her  bright  eves  and  merely  said : 

"Try." 

"  Tell  me," — began  Asya,  after  a  brief  silence, 
in  the  course  of  which  certain  shadows  had  flitted 
across  her  face,  that  had  already  paled  again: 
—  "  were  you  very  fond  of  that  lady?  ....  You 
remember,  m}'^  brother  drank  to  her  health  on  the 
ruin  on  the  second  day  of  our  acquaintance." 

I  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Your  brother  was  jesting.  I  have  not  been 
fond  of  any  lady ;  at  all  events,  I  am  not  fond  of 
any  one  now." 

286 


ASYA 

"And  what  pleases  you  in  women?" — in- 
quired Asya,  throwing  hack  her  head  with  in- 
nocent curiosity. 

"  What  a  strange  question!  "  —  I  exclaimed. 

Asya  was  slightly  disconcerted. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  put  such  a  question  to 
you,  ought  1-  Pardon  me;  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  blurt  out  everything  which  comes  into 
my  head.    That  is  why  I  am  afraid  to  talk." 

"  Talk,  for  Heaven's  sake;  be  not  afraid!  "  —  I 
interposed : — "I  am  so  glad  that  you  have,  at  last, 
ceased  to  be  shy." 

Asya  dropped  her  eyes  and  began  to  laugh 
softly  and  lightly;  I  did  not  know  she  could  laugh 
in  that  way. 

"  Come,  tell  me,"  —  she  went  on,  smoothing  the 
folds  of  her  gown,  and  laying  them  over  her  feet, 
as  though  she  did  not  intend  to  move  for  a  long 
time:  —  "tell  me  something,  or  recite  something, 
as  when  you  recited  to  us  from  '  Onyegin,'  you 
remember " 

She  suddenly  became  pensive.  .  .  . 

"  \V' here  is  now  the  cross  and  the  shadow  of  the  bough 
Over  my  poor  mother!  ^ 

she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  That  is  not  the  way  Pushkin  has  it,"— I  re- 
marked. 

"  1  should  like  to  be  Tatyana,"  ^  she  went  on, 

^TatyaiiJi  is  the  famous  heroine  of  IMslikin's  poem, 
"  Evj^ciiy  OiiycKi'>-"~'i"'»AN8i-AToii. 

287 


ASYA 

in  the  same  thoughtful  manner.  —  "  Recite,"— she 
interjected  with  vivacity. 

But  I  was  in  no  mood  for  recitation.  I  gazed 
at  her,  all  bathed  in  the  sunlight,  all  composed 
and  gentle.  Everything  was  beaming  joyously 
around  us — the  sky,  the  earth,  and  the  waters; 
the  very  air  seemed  to  be  permeated  with  bril- 
liancy. 

"  See,  how  beautiful  it  is,"  —  I  said,  involun- 
tarily lowering  my  voice.     " 

"  Yes,  it  is  beautiful,"  —  she  replied  with  equal 
softness,  and  without  looking  at  me. — "  If  you 
and  I  were  only  birds — how  we  would  soar,  would 
fly  away.  .  .  .  We  would  fairly  drown  in  that 
azure.  .  .  .  But  we  are  not  birds." 

"  Yet  wings  might  sprout  on  us," — I  returned. 

"How  so?" 

"  If  you  live  long  enough,  you  will  find  out. 
There  are  feelings  which  raise  us  above  the  earth. 
Don't  worry,  you  will  have  wings." 

"  And  have  you  had  any?  " 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  you?  ...  I  don't  think 
I  have  flown  up  to  the  present  moment." 

Again  Asya  became  pensive.  I  bent  slightly 
toward  her. 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  waltz?  "—she  suddenly 
inquired. 

"  I  do,"  — I  replied,  somewhat  surprised. 

"  Then  let  us  go,  let  us  go.  ...  I  will  ask  my 
brother  to  play  a  waltz  for  us.  .  .  .  We  will  im- 

288 


ASYA 

agine  that  we  are  flying,  that  wings  have  sprouted 


on  us." 


She  ran  toward  the  house.  I  ran  after  her,  and 
a  few  moments  later  we  were  circhng  round  the 
httle  room  to  the  sweet  sounds  of  Lanner.  Asya 
waltzed  beautifully,  with  enthusiasm.  Some- 
thing soft  and  feminine  suddenly  pierced  through 
lier  virginally-severe  face.  For  a  long  time  after- 
ward mv  arm  felt  the  contact  of  her  dainty  waist ; 
for  a  long  time  I  seemed  to  hear  her  accelerated 
breathing  near  at  hand;  for  a  long  time  visions 
of  dark  eyes  almost  closed,  in  a  pale  but  animated 
face,  witli  curls  sportively  fluttering  around  it, 
flitted  before  me. 


X 


That  whole  day  passed  oiF  in  the  best  possible 
manner.  We  made  merry,  like  children.  _Asya 
was  very  charming  and  simple.  Gagin  rejoiced 
as  he  looked  at  her.  It  was  late  when  I  went 
away.  On  reaching  the  middle  of  the  Rhine,  I 
requested  the  boatman  to  let  the  skiff*  float  down 
the  current.  The  old  man  deviated  his  oars,  and 
the  royal  river  l)orc  us  onward.  As  I  gazed 
about  me,  listening  and  recalling,  I  suddenly  felt 
a  secret  restlessness  at  my  heart  ....  and  raised 
my  eyes  heavenward,  llut  there  was  no  rest  in 
the  sky  either;  besprinkled  with  stars,  it  was  all 

280 


ASYA 

astir,  moving,  quivering:  I  bent  over  the  river, 
....  but  there  also,  in  those  cold  depths,  the 
stars  were  undulating  and  tlu'obbing;  it  seemed 
to  me  that  there  was  tremulous  animation  every- 
where, and  the  tremulousness  within  me  in- 
creased. I  leaned  my  elbows  on  the  edge  of  the 
boat.  .  .  .  The  whisper  of  the  wind  in  my  ears, 
the  quiet  purling  of  the  water  at  the  stern,  and  the 
cool  breath  of  the  waves  did  not  refresh  me;  a 
nightingale  began  to  warble  on  the  shore  and 
infected  me  with  the  sweet  poison  of  its  notes; 
Tears  welled  up  in  my  eyes,  but  they  were  not  the 
tears  of  objectless  rapture.  What  I  felt  was  not 
that  troubled  sensation  which  I  had  so  recently 
experienced  of  all-embracing  desire,  when  the 
soul  widens  out,  reverberates;  when  it  seems  to  it 
that  it  understands  everything  and  loves  every- 
thing. No!  the  thirst  for  hapjDiness  had  been 
kindled  in  me.  I  did  not,  as  yet,  dare  to  call  it 
by  name,  —  but  happiness,  happiness  to  satiety, — 
that  was  what  I  wanted,  that  was  what  I  was 
pining  for.  .  .  .  And  still  the  boat  was  borne 
onward,  and  the  old  boatman  sat,  and  dozed,  as 
he  bent  over  his  oars. 

XI 

When  I  set  out  for  the  Gagins'  on  the  following 
day,  I  did  not  ask  myself  whether  I  was  in  love 
with  Asya,  but  I  meditated  a  great  deal  about 

290 


ASYA 

her,  her  fate  interested  me,  I  rejoiced  at  our  un- 
expected intimacy.  I  felt  that  only  since  the  day 
before  had  I  known  her;  up  to  that  time  she  had 
turned  away  from  me.  And  now,  when  she  had 
blossomed  out  at  last  before  me,  with  what  an  en- 
chanting light  was  her  image  illuminated,  how 
new  it  was  to  me,  what  secret  witcheries  bashfully 
pierced  through  it!  .  .  . 

I  walked  briskly  along  the  familiar  path,  inces- 
santly frlancincr  at  the  little  house  which  gleamed 
white  in  the  distance ;  I  not  onl}^  did  not  think  of 
the  future,  I  did  not  think  even  of  the  morrow; 
I  felt  greatly  at  mv  ease. 

Asya  blushed  when  I  entered  the  room;  I  no- 
ticed that  she  had  again  arrayed  herself  gaily,  but 
the  expression  of  her  face  did  not  consort  with  her 
attire;  it  was  sad.  And  I  had  arrived  in  such  a 
merry  mood!  It  even  seemed  to  me  that,  accord- 
ing to  her  wont,  she  was  preparing  to  flee,  but 
exerted  an  eifort  over  herself, — and  remained. 
Gagin  was  in  that  peculiar  condition  of  artistic 
ardour  and  fury  which,  in  the  shape  of  an  attack, 
suddenly  takes  possession  of  dilettantes  when  they 
imagine  that  they  liave  been  successful,  as  the}" 
express  it,  in  "  seizing  nature  by  the  tail."  He 
was  standing,  all  dishevelled  and  besmeared  with 
paints,  in  front  of  a  canvas  stretched  on  a  frame, 
and,  sweeping  the  brush  across  it  with  a  flourish, 
he  nodded  his  head  almost  fiercely  at  me,  re- 
treated, screwed  up  his  eyes,  and  again  flung  him- 

291 


ASYA 

self  at  liis  jiictiire.  I  did  not  interfere  with  him, 
and  sat  down  beside  Asya.  Her  dark  eyes  slowly 
turned  to  me. 

"  You  are  not  the  same  to-day  as  you  were  yes- 
terday,"—I  remarked,  after  futile  efforts  to 
evoke  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

"  Xo,  I  am  not  the  same,"— she  returned  in 
a  dull,  deliberate  voice:  — "but  that  is  nothing. 
I  did  not  sleep  well;  I  thought  all  night  long." 

"What  about?" 

"  Akh,  I  tliought  of  many  things.  It  is  a  habit 
of  mine  since  childhood;  even  at  the  time  when 
I  used  to  live  with  mamma.  ..." 

She  uttered  that  word  with  difficulty,  and  then 
repeated : 

"  When  I  lived  with  mamma.  ...  I  used  to 
think,  why  it  was  that  no  one  can  find  out  what 
will  become  of  us;  and  sometimes  one  has  a  pre- 
sentiment of  a  catastrophe, — but  it  is  impossible 
to  be  happy ;  and  why  it  is  that  one  must  never  tell 
the  whole  truth?  ....  Then  I  thought  that  I 
knew  nothing,  that  I  must  study.  I  must  be 
educated  all  over  again.  I  am  very  badly  brought 
up.  I  don't  know  how  to  play  on  the  piano,  I 
don't  know  how  to  draw,  I  even  sew  badly.  I 
have  no  talents;  people  must  find  it  very  dull  in 
my  company." 

"You  are  unjust  to  yourself,"  — I  replied:  — 
"  you  have  read  a  great  deal,  you  are  cultured, 
and  with  your  intelhgence  .  .  .  ." 

292 


ASYA 

"  Am  I  intelligent?  "  —  she  asked  with  such  an 
ingenuous  thirst  for  information,  that  I  involun- 
tarily burst  out  laughing;  but  she  did  not  even 
smile.  —  "  Brother,  am  I  intelligent?  "  —  she  asked 
Gagin. 

He  made  her  no  reply,  and  went  on  with  his 
labours,  incessanth^  changing  his  brushes,  and  ele- 
vating his  arm  very  high. 

"  I  sometimes  don't  know  myself  what  there  is 
in  my  head,"  —  pursued  Asya,  with  the  same  inno- 
cent mien.  — "  I  am  afraid  of  myself  sometimes 
God  is  my  witness,  I  am.    Akh,  I  would  like.  .  . 
Is  it  true  that  women  ought  not  to  read  much? ' 

"  Xot  much  reading  is  necessary,  but  .  .  .  .' 

"  Tell  me  what  I  ought  to  read.  Tell  me  what 
I  ought  to  do.  I  will  do  everything  you  tell 
me,"  — she  added,  turning  to  me  with  innocent 
trustfulness. 

I  did  not  at  once  hit  upon  anything  to  say  to 
her. 

"  You  won't  find  it  boresome  with  me,  will 
you? 

"  Good  gracious!  "  ....  I  began.  .  .  . 

"Well,  thanks!"  — returned  Asya;— "but  I 
was  thinking  tliat  vou  would  find  it  tiresome." 
And  her  hot  little  hand  gripped  mine  forcibly. 

"N.!"  —  exclaimed  Ciagin  at  that  moment:  — 
"  is  n't  this  background  too  dark?  " 

I  went  to  him.     Asya  rose  and  withdrew. 


293 


ASYA 


XII 


She  returned  an  hour  later,  halted  in  the  door- 
way, and  beckoned  to  me  with  her  hand. 

"  Listen,"— said  she:—"  if  I  were  to  die,  would 
you  feel  sorry  for  me?  " 

"  What  ideas  you  have  to-day!  "  —  I  exclaimed. 

"  I  have  an  idea  that  I  shall  die  soon;  it  some- 
times seems  to  me  that  everything  around  me  is 
bidding  me  farewell.  It  is  better  to  die  than  to 
live  thus.  .  .  Akh!  don't  look  at  me  hke  that; 
truly,  I  am  not  pretending.  Otherwise  I  shall 
be  afraid  of  you  again." 

"  Were  you  afraid  of  me?  " 

"  Really,  I  am  not  to  blame,  if  I  am  such  a 
strange  creature,"— she  replied.  —  "  As  you  see,  I 
cannot  laugh  any  more.  .  .  ." 

She  remained  sad  and  preoccupied  until  the 
evening.  Something  was  taking  place  within  her 
which  I  did  not  understand.  Her  gaze  frequently 
rested  on  me;  my  heart  contracted  quietly  be- 
neath that  enigmatical  gaze.  She  seemed  calm, 
—but  when  I  looked  at  her,  I  kept  wanting  to 
say  to  her,  that  she  must  not  agitate  herself. 
—  I  admired  her,  found  a  touching  charm  in 
her  pallid  features,  in  her  undecided,  delib- 
erate movements— but  for  some  reason  or 
other,  she  took  it  into  her  head  that  I  was  out  of 
sorts. 

294 


ASYA 

"  Listen," — she  said  to  me  not  long  before  I 
took  leave:  —  "  I  am  tortured  bv  the  thought  that 
I  am  considered  giddy.  .  .  .  Henceforth  you 
must  always  believe  what  I  shall  say  to  you, 
only  you  must  be  frank  with  me:  and  I  will  al- 
ways  speak  the  truth  to  you,  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honour.  .  .  ." 

This  "  word  of  honour  "  made  me  burst  out 
laughing  again. 

"  Akh, — don't  laugh,"  —  she  said  with  vivacity: 
—  "or  I  will  sav  to  you  to-day  what  you  said  to 
me  yesterday:  — '  Why  do  you  laugh?'"  — And 
after  a  brief  pause,  she  added:  —  "Do  j'ou  re- 
member, you  spoke  of  wings  yesterday?  .  .  .  ]My 
M'ings  have  sprouted, — but  there  is  nowhere  to 

fly-" 

"Good  gracious," — said  I:  —  "all  roads  are 
open  to  you.  .  .  ." 

Asya  looked  me  straight  and  intently  in  the 
eye. 

"  You  have  a  bad  opinion  of  me  to-day,"— said 
she,  contracting  her  brows  in  a  frown. 

"I?    A  bad  opinion?    Of  you!  .  .  .  .  " 

"  Why  is  it  that  you  are  just  as  though  you  had 
been  dipped  in  the  water?  "  — Gagin  interrupted 
me:  —  "  I  11  play  a  waltz  for  you,  as  I  did  yester- 
day ;-shalH  ? '' 

"  Xo,  no,"  —  replied  Asya,  clenching  her  fists: 
— "  not  on  any  account  to-day !  " 

"  I  am  not  forcing  you ;  calm  yourself.  .  .  ." 

205 


ASYA 

"  Xot  on  any  account,"— she  repeated,  turning 
pale. 


"  Can  it  be  that  she  loves  me?  "  I  thought,  as  I 
approached  the  Rhine,  which  was  flowing  swiftly 
past  in  dark  waves. 

XIII 

"  Can  it  be  that  she  loves  me? "  I  asked  myself 
the  next  daj^  as  soon  as  I  awoke.  —  I  did  not  wish 
to  look  within  myself.  I  felt  that  her  image,  the 
image  "  of  the  girl  with  the  strained  laugh,"  had 
imprinted  itself  on  my  soul,  and  that  I  should 
not  soon  rid  myself  of  it.  — I  went  to  L.  and  re- 
mained there  the  entire  day,  but  caught  only  a 
glimpse  of  Asya.  She  was  not  well:  she  had  a 
headache.  She  came  down-stairs  for  a  moment, 
with  her  brow  bound  up,  pale,  thin,  with  eyes 
almost  closed;  she  smiled  faintly,  said:  —  "  it  will 
l^ass  oif,  it  is  nothing,  all  will  pass  off,  will  it 
not?  "  —  and  went  away.  I  found  things  tire- 
some, and,  somehow,  mournfully-empty;  but  I 
would  not  go  away  for  a  long  time,  and  returned 
home  late,  without  having  seen  her  again. 

The  following  morning  passed  by  in  a  sort  of 
semi-doze  of  consciousness.  I  tried  to  set  to  work, 
and  could  not;  I  tried  to  do  things  and  not  to 
think  ....  and  did  not  make  a  success  of  that 

296 


ASYA 

either.  I  wandered  about  the  town;  when  I  got 
home,  I  started  out  again. 

"  Are  you  ]Mr.  X.?  " — a  childish  voice  suddenly 
rang  out  behind  me.  I  glanced  round ;  before  me 
stood  a  small  urchin.  —  "  This  is  for  you  from 
Fraulein  Annette,"— he  added,  handing  me  a 
note. 

I  unfolded  it  — and  recognised  Asya's  hasty,  ir- 
regular chirography.  — "  It  is  imperatively  neces- 
sary that  I  should  see  you,"  — she  wrote  me.— 
"  Come  to-day,  at  four  o'clock,  to  the  stone  chapel 
on  the  road  near  the  ruin.  I  have  committed  a 
great  indiscretion  to-day.  .  .  .  Come,  for  God's 
sake,  and  you  shall  know  all.  .  .  .  Say  '  yes  '  to 
the  messenger." 

"  Will  there  be  any  answer?  "—the  boy  asked 
me. 

"  Say  tliat  I  answer  '  yes,'  "  I  replied.  The 
boy  ran  off. 


XIV 

I  CAME  to  my  senses  in  my  own  room,  sat  down, 
and  became  immersed  in  thought.  JNIy  heart  was 
beating  violently  within  me.  I  read  over  Asya's 
note  several  times.  I  glanced  at  my  watch:  it 
was  not  yet  twelve  o'clock. 

The  door  opened  — Ciiigin  entered. 

His  face  was  gloomy.     He  grasped  my  hand 

297 


ASYA 

and  sliook  it  vigorously.  He  seemed  greatly  per- 
turbed. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  "  —  I  asked. 

Gagin  took  a  chair,  and  sat  down  opposite  me. 

"  TIn*ee  days  ago," — he  began  with  a  con- 
strained smile,  and  hesitating  as  he  spoke, — "  I 
astonished  you  by  my  tale;  to-day  I  shall  astonish 
you  still  more. — With  any  one  else  I  should  not, 
probably,  have  made  up  my  mind  ....  to  speak 
....  so  plainly But  you  are  an  hon- 
ourable man,  you  are  mj^  friend,  are  you  not? — 
Listen:  my  sister  Asya  is  in  love  with  you." 

I  trembled  all  over  and  half  rose  from  my 

Sca.L«     •     •     • 

"  Your  sister,  you  say  .  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes," — Gagin  interrupted  me. — "  I  tell 
you  that  she  is  crazy  and  will  drive  me  out  of  my 
senses.  But,  fortunately,  she  does  not  know  how 
to  lie — and  she  trusts  me. — Akh,  what  a  soul  that 
little  girl  has!  .  .  .  but  she  will  certainly  ruin 
herself." 

"  But  you  are  mistaken," — I  began. 

"  No,  I  am  not  mistaken.  Yesterday,  j^ou 
know,  she  was  lying  down  almost  all  day ;  she  ate 
nothing,  but  she  did  not  complain  of  anything. 
....  She  never  complains. — I  was  not  uneasy, 
although  toward  evening  a  slight  fever  made  its 
appearance.  At  two  o'clock  this  morning,  our 
landlady  woke  me:  '  Go  to  your  sister,'  she  said: 
'  there  's  something  wrong  with  her.'— I  ran  to 

298 


ASYA 

Asya,  and  found  her  fully  dressed,  in  a  fever,  in 
tears ;  her  head  was  burning,  her  teeth  were  chat- 
tering.    'What  aileth  thee?'  I  inquired:  —  'Art 
thou  ill? ' — She  threw  herself  on  my  neck  and  be- 
gan to  implore  me  to  take  her  away  as  promptly 
as  possible,  if  I  wanted  her  to  remain  alive.  ...  I 
understood  nothing,  I  tried  to  soothe  her.  .  .  . 
Her  sobs  redoubled  ....  and  suddenly,  through 
those  sobs  I  heard.  .  .  .  Well,  in  a  word,  I  heard 
that  she  loved  you.  —  I  assure  vou  that  you  and 
I,  sensible  people,  cannot  even  imagine  to  our- 
selves how  deeply  she  feels,  and  with  what  in- 
credible violence  feelings  manifest  themselves  in 
her:  the  attack  comes  over  her  as  suddenly  and 
as  irresistibly  as  a  thunder-storm.  —  You  are  a 
very   charming   man," — pursued   Gagin,  —  "  but 
why  she  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  you,  I  do 
not  understand,  I  must  confess.     She  says  that 
she  became  attaclied  to  you  at  first  sight.     That 
is  why  she  wept  the  other  day,  when  she  assured 
me  that  she  did  not  wish  to  love  any  one  except 
me.  — She  imagines  that  you  despise  her,  that  you 
probal)ly  know  wlio  she  is;  she  asked  me  whether 
I  had  not  narrated  her  story  to  you,  —  and  I,  of 
course,  said  that  I  had  not;  but  her  sensitiveness 
is  simply  terrible.     She  wishes  only  one  thing:  to 
go  away,  to  go  away  instantly.  —  I  sat  with  her  un- 
til morning;  she  made  me  ])romise  that  we  should 
be  gone  from  here  to-morrow — and  only  then  did 
she  fall  asleep.  — I  reflected,  and  reflected,  and 

299 


ASYA 

made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  In  my 
opinion,  Asya  is  right:  the  very  hest  thing  is  for 
us  both  to  go  away  from  here.  And  I  would  have 
taken  her  awaj'^  to-day,  had  not  an  idea  occurred 
to  me  which  stopped  me.  Perhaps  ....  who 
knows?— my  sister  pleases  you?  If  so,  why 
should  I  take  her  away?— And  so  I  decided,  cast- 
ing aside  all  shame.  .  .  .  ^loreover,  I  have  no- 
ticed something.  ...  I  decided  ....  to  learn 
from  you  .  .  .  ."  Poor  Gagin  got  entangled.— 
"Pardon  me,  pray,"— he  added:— "  I  am  not 
accustomed  to  such  worries." 

I  grasped  his  hand. 

"  You  wish  to  know,"— I  enunciated  in  a  firm 
voice:  — "  whether  I  like  your  sister?— Yes,  I  do 
like  her.  .  .  ." 

Gagin  looked  at  me.  —  "  But,"— he  said,  falter- 
ing,— "  surelv  you  will  not  marry  her?  " 

"  How  do  you  wish  me  to  answer  such  a  ques- 
tion ?    Judge  for  yourself  whether  I  can  now. . . ." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  — Gagin  interrupted  me.— 
"  I  have  no  right  to  demand  an  answer  from  you, 
and  my  question  is  the  height  of  indecorum.  .  .  . 
But  what  would  you  have  me  do?  One  cannot 
play  with  fire.  You  do  not  know  Asya;  she  is 
capable  of  falling  ill,  of  running  away,  of  ap- 
pointing a  tryst  with  j^ou.  .  .  .  Any  other  wo- 
man would  know  how  to  conceal  everything  and 
wait— but  not  she.  This  is  the  first  time  it  has 
happened  to  her— and  therein  lies  the  mischief! 

300 


ASYA 

If  you  could  have  seen  how  she  sobbed  to-day  at 
my  feet,  you  would  understand  my  apprehen- 
sions." 

I  reflected.  Gagin's  words :  "  of  appointing 
a  tryst  with  you,"  pricked  me  to  the  heart.  It 
seemed  cO  me  shameful  not  to  reply  to  his  hon- 
ourable frankness  with  frankness. 

"  Yes,"— I  said  at  last:  —  "  you  are  right.  An 
hour  ago,  I  received  from  your  sister  a  note. 
Here  it  is." 

Gagin  took  the  note,  ran  his  eyes  hastily  over  it, 
and  dropped  his  hands  on  his  knees.  The  ex- 
pression of  amazement  on  his  face  was  very 
amusing;  but  I  was  in  no  mood  for  laughter. 

"  You  are  an  honourable  man,  I  repeat  it," — 
said  he:—"  but  what  is  to  be  done  now?  What?" 
She  herself  wants  to  go  away,  and  she  writes  to 
you  and  accuses  herself  of  indiscretion  ....  and 
when  did  she  get  a  chance  to  write  this?  What 
does  she  want  of  you  ?  " 

I  reassured  him,  and  we  began  to  discuss  coolly, 
so  far  as  we  were  able,  what  we  ought  to  do. 

This  is  what  we  finally  decided  upon:  with  the 
object  of  preventing  a  catastrophe,  I  was  to  go 
to  the  tryst  and  have  an  honest  explanation  with 
Asya;  (iagin  promised  to  sit  quietly  at  home, 
and  not  to  appear  to  know  alK)ut  her  note;  and 
we  agreed  to  meet  togetlicr  again  in  the  evening. 

"  I  place  firm  rehance  on  you,"  — said  Gagin, 
gripping  my  hand:  — "  spare  her,  and  me.     And 

301 


ASYA 

Ave  will  go  away  to-morrow,  all  the  same,"— he 
added,  rising: — "for  you  will  not  marry  Asya, 
assuredly." 

"  Give  me  until  evening," — I  returned. 

"  Certainly ;  but  you  will  not  marry  her." 

He  went  away,  and  I  flung  myself  on  the  divan 
and  closed  my  eyes.  ISly  head  was  reeling;  too 
many  impressions  had  descended  upon  it  at  once. 
I  was  vexed  at  Gagin's  frankness,  I  was  vexed 
at  Asya;  her  love  both  delighted  and  upset 
me.  I  could  not  comprehend  what  had  made 
her  tell  her  brother  all;  the  inevitableness  of  a 
prompt,  almost  instantaneous  decision  worried 
me.  .  .  . 

"  jNIarry  a  little  girl  of  seventeen,  with  her  dis- 
position,—how  is  that  possible?" — I  said,  as  I 
rose. 

XV 

At  the  hour  agreed  upon  I  crossed  the  Rhine, 
and  the  first  person  who  met  me  on  the  opposite 
shore  was  that  same  small  urchin  who  had  come 
to  me  in  the  morning.  Evidently  he  was  waiting 
for  me. 

"  From  Friiulein  Annette,"— he  said  in  a  whis- 
per, and  handed  me  another  note. 

Asya  informed  me  that  the  place  for  our  tryst 
had  been  changed.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  and  a 
half  I  was  to  go,  not  to  the  chapel,  but  to  the 

302 


ASYA 

house  of  Frail  Luise,  knock  at  the  lower  door,  and 
ascend  to  the  third  story. 

"  '  Yes  '  affain?  " — the  boy  asked  me. 

"  Yes," — I  repeated,  and  strolled  along  the 
bank  of  the  Rhine.  There  was  not  time  to  return 
home,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  prowl  about  the 
streets.  Outside  the  town  wall  there  was  a  tiny 
garden,  with  a  sign  announcing  skittles  and 
tables  for  lovers  of  beer.  I  went  thither.  Sev- 
eral Germans,  already  advanced  in  years,  were 
playing  skittles;  the  wooden  balls  rolled  with  a 
clatter;  now  and  then  exclamations  of  approba- 
tion resounded.  A  pretty  serving-maid  \vith 
tear-stained  eyes  brought  me  a  tankard  of  beer; 
I  glanced  at  her  face.  She  swiftly  turned  aside 
and  went  away. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  —  said  a  fat,  red-cheeked  burgher, 
who  was  sitting  near  by:  —  "  our  Hiinchen  is  much 
afflicted  to-day;— her  betrothed  has  gone  to  be  a 
soldier."  — I  looked  at  her;  she  had  crouched  down 
in  a  corner,  and  propped  her  cheek  on  her  hand; 
the  tears  were  dripping  one  by  one  through  her 
fingers.  Some  one  asked  for  beer;  she  brought 
him  a  tankard  and  returned  again  to  her  place. 
Her  grief  affected  me;  I  began  to  think  about 
my  impending  tryst,  but  my  thoughts  were  anx- 
ious, cheerless  tliougbts.  It  was  witli  no  liglit 
heart  that  T  was  going  to  that  meeting,  tliere  was 
no  prospect  of  my  surrendering  myself  to  the 
joys  of  niutufd  love;  what  awaited  me  was  the 

303 


ASYA 

keeping  of  my  word  which  had  been  pledged,  the 
fulfilling  of  a  difficult  obligation.  —  "  She  is  not 
to  be  jested  with,"  — those  words  of  Gagin  pierced 
my  soul  like  arrows.  And  three  days  ago,  in  that 
boat  borne  away  by  the  waves,  had  I  not  lan- 
guished with  the  thirst  for  happiness?  It  had 
become  possible— and  I  was  wavering,  I  was  re- 
pulsing it,  I  was  bound  to  put  it  from  me.  .  .  . 
Its  suddenness  had  disconcerted  me.  Asya  her- 
self, with  her  fiery  brain,  with  her  past,  her  rear- 
ing,—that  attractive,  but  peculiar  being,— I  must 
confess  that  she  frightened  me.  For  a  long  time 
did  these  feelings  contend  within  me.  The  ap- 
pointed hour  was  approaching.  "  I  cannot  marry 
her,"— I  decided  at  last:  — "  she  shall  not  know 
that  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  also." 

I  rose,  — and  laying  a  thaler  in  the  hand  of 
poor  Hanchen  (she  did  not  even  thank  me),  I 
wended  my  way  to  Frau  Luise's  house.  The 
evening  shadows  were  already  diffused  through 
the  air,  and  the  narrow  strip  of  sky  above  the 
dark  street  was  crimson  with  the  sunset  glow.  I 
knocked  feebly  at  the  door;  it  immediately 
opened.  I  stepped  across  the  threshold  and 
found  myself  in  total  darkness. 

"  This  way!  "—an  elderly  voice  made  itself  au- 
dible.—" You  are  expected." 

I  advanced  a  couple  of  paces  gropingly,  and 
some  one's  bony  hand  grasped  my  hand. 

"  Are  you  Frau  Luise?  "—I  asked. 

304 


ASYA 

"  I  am,"— the  same  voice  answered  me:—"  I 
am,  my  very  fine  young  man."  —  The  old  woman 
led  me  up-stairs,  by  a  winding  staircase,  and 
halted  on  the  landing  of  the  third  story.  By  the 
faint  light  which  fell  through  a  tiny  window  I 
descried  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  burgomaster's 
widow.  A  mawkishly-crafty  smile  distended  her 
sunken  lips,  and  puckered  up  her  dim  little  eyes. 
She  pointed  out  to  me  a  tiny  door.  With  a  con- 
\Tilsive  movement  of  the  arm  I  opened  it,  and 
slammed  it  behind  me. 


XVI 

In  the  small  room  which  I  entered  it  was  decid- 
edly dark,  and  I  did  not  at  once  perceive  Asya. 
Enveloped  in  a  long  shawl,  she  was  sitting  on 
a  chair  near  the  window,  with  her  head  turned 
away  and  almost  concealed,  like  a  frightened 
])ird.  I  felt  unspeakably  sorry  for  her.  She 
turned  her  head  still  further  away.  .  .  . 

"  Anna  Nikolaevna," — I  said. 

She  suddenly  straightened  herself  up  fully, 
and  tried  to  look  at  me — and  could  not.  I  seized 
her  hand;  it  was  cold,  and  lay  like  dead  in  my 
2)alm. 

"  I  wanted,"  ....  began  Asya,  making  an 
effort  to  smile;  but  her  ])ale  lips  did  not  obey  her: 
—  "I  wanted.  .  .  .  No,  I  cannot,"— she  said,  and 

305 


ASYA 

fell  silent.  In  fact,  her  voice  broke  at  every 
word. 

1  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"  Anna  Nikolaevna,"  I  repeated,  and  I  also 
was  unable  to  add  anything  further. 

A  silence  ensued.  I  continued  to  hold  her  hand 
and  gaze  at  her.  She,  as  before,  shrank  all  to- 
gether, breathed  with  difficulty,  and  quietly  bit 
her  under  lip,  to  keep  from  weeping,  to  restrain 
the  welling  tears.  ...  I  gazed  at  her:  there  was 
something  touchingly-helpless  in  her  timid  im- 
passivity; it  seemed  as  though  she  had  barely 
made  her  way  to  the  chair  with  fatigue,  and  had 
fairly  collapsed  upon  it.  My  heart  melted  within 
me.  .  .  . 

"Asya,"  —  I  said,  in  a  barely  audible  voice. 

She  slowly  raised  her  eyes  to  mine.  .  .  .  Oh, 
glance  of  the  woman  who  is  in  love,  who  shall 
describe  thee?  They  implored,  those  eyes,  they 
trusted,  they  interrogated,  they  surrendered 
themselves.  ...  I  could  not  resist  their  witchery. 
A  thin  fire  ran  through  me,  like  red-hot  needles; 
I  bent  down  and  pressed  my  lips  to  her  hand.  .  .  . 

A  tremulous  sound,  resembling  a  broken  sob, 
resounded,  and  I  felt  on  my  hair  the  touch  of  a 
weak  hand,  which  was  quivering  like  a  leaf.  I 
raised  my  head  and  saw  her  face.  How  sud- 
denly it  had  become  transfigured!  The  expres- 
sion of  terror  had  vanished  from  it,  her  gaze  had 
retreated   somewhere    far   away,   and   drew   me 

806 


ASYA 

after  it;  her  lips  were  slightly  parted,  her  brow 
had  become  as  pallid  as  marble,  and  her  curls  were 
floating  backward,  as  though  the  wind  had  blown 
them.  I  forgot  everything,  I  drew  her  to  me — 
her  hand  obeyed  submissively,  her  whole  body 
was  drawn  after  the  hand;  her  shawl  slipped 
from  her  shoulders,  and  her  head  sank  softlj^  on 
my  breast  and  lay  there  beneath  my  ardent 
lips.  .  .  . 

"  Yours," — she  whispered,  in  a  barely  audible 
voice. 

My  arms  were  alreadj^  stealing  round  her 
waist.  .  .  .  But  suddenh%  the  memory  of  Ga- 
gin  illuminated  me  like  a  flash  of  lightning.— 
"  What  are  we  doing?  "  —  I  cried,  and  drew  back 
with  agitation.  ..."  Your  brother  ....  he 
knows  all.    lie  knows  that  I  am  with  you." 

Asya  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  Yes,"  —  I  went  on,  rising  and  walking  away 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  — "  Your  brother 
knows  everything.  ...  I  must  tell  him  every- 
thing. .  .  ." 

"You  must?"  —  she  said  indistinctly.  She 
evidently  could  not  yet  recover  herself,  and  un- 
derstood me  imperfectly. 

"  Yes,  yes,"— I  repeated,  with  a  certain  ob- 
duracy:— "  and  for  that  you  alone  are  to  bhune. 
—  Wliy  did  von  bctniv  vour  secret?    Who  forced 

•  •  •       • 

you  to  tell  your  brother  all?    lie  came  to  me  to- 
day  himself  and  repeated  to  me  your  conversation 

:J07 


ASYA 

with  him." — I  tried  not  to  look  at  Asya,  and 
paced  the  room  in  long  strides.  —  "  Now  all  is  lost, 
idl,  all." 

Asj^a  endeavonred  to  rise  from  her  chair. 

"  Stay,"  —  1  exclaimed:  — "  stay,  I  heg  of  you. 
You  have  to  deal  with  an  honest  man, — yes,  with 
an  honest  man. — But,  for  God's  sake,  what  agi- 
tated you?  Had  you  observed  any  change  in  me? 
But  I  could  not  dissimulate  before  your  brother 
when  he  came  to  me  to-day." 

"  I  did  not  summon  my  brother," — Asya's 
frightened  whisper  made  itself  heard:  —  "  he  came 
of  his  own  accord." 

"  Just  see  what  you  have  done," — I  went  on. — 
"  Now  you  want  to  go  away.  ..." 

"Yes;  I  must  go  away," — said  she,  as  softly 
as  before:  — "  and  I  asked  you  to  come  hither 
merely  for  the  purpose  of  bidding  you  fare- 
well." 

"And  do  you  think," — I  retorted, — "that  it 
will  be  easy  for  me  to  part  from  you?  " 

"But  why  did  you  tell  my  brother?" — re- 
peated Asya,  in  perplexity. 

"  I  tell  3'ou  that  I  could  not  do  otherwise.  If 
you  had  not  betrayed  yourself  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  locked  myself  in  my  chamber," — she  re- 
turned ingenuously:  —  "  I  did  not  know  that  my 
landlady  had  another  key.  .  .  ." 

This  innocent  excuse,  on  her  lips,  at  such  a  mo- 
ment, almost  drove  me  frantic  then  ....  and 

308 


ASYA 

even  now  I   cannot  recall  it  without   emotion. 
Poor,  honest,  sincere  child! 

"  And  now,  all  is  at  an  end!  "  —  I  began  again. 
— "  All.  Now  we  must  part."— I  cast  a  stealthy 
glance  at  Asya  ....  her  face  flushed  swiftly. 
She  was  both  ashamed  and  alarmed,  I  felt  it.  I 
myself  was  walking  and  talking  as  though  in  a 
fever.  —  "  You  did  not  allow  the  feeling  to  de- 
velop which  was  beginning  to  ripen;  you  your- 
self have  ruptured  our  bond,  you  did  not  trust 
me,  you  doubted  me.  .  .  ." 

While  I  was  speaking,  Asya  bent  forward 
lower  and  lower,  — and  suddenly  fell  on  her  knees, 
bowed  her  head  on  her  hands,  and  burst  out  sob- 
bing. I  ran  to  her,  I  tried  to  raise  her,  but  she 
would  not  let  me.  I  cannot  endure  woman's 
tears;  I  immediately  lose  my  self-control  at  the 
sight  of  them. 

"  Anna  Xikolaevna,  Asya,"  — I  kept  repeat- 
ing:—"  pray,  I  implore  you,  for  God's  sake, 
stop.  .  .  ."    Again  I  took  her  hand. 

But,  to  my  great  surprise,  she  suddenly  sprang 
to  her  feet,— with  the  swiftness  of  lightning  flew 
to  the  door,  and  vanished.  .  .  . 

\Micn,  a  few  moments  later,  Fran  I.uise  en- 
tered the  room,  I  was  still  standing  in  the  middle 
of  it  as  though  I  had  been  struck  by  a  tliunder- 
Ixilt.  I  (lid  not  understand  how  that  meeting 
could  have  ended  so  speedily,  so  stu])idly  — and 
when  1  had  not  said  the  hundredtli  part  of  what 

309 


ASYA 

I  had  meant  to  say,  of  what  I  ought  to  have  said, 
—  when  I  myself  had  not  vet  known  how  it 
would  turn  out 

"  Has  the  Friiulein  gone?  "— Frau  Luise  asked 
me,  elevating  her  yellow  eyebrows  to  her  very 
wig. 

I  stared  at  her  like  a  fool — and  left  the  room. 


XVII 

I  MADE  my  way  out  of  the  town  and  set  off 
straight  across  the  open  country.  Vexation, 
fierce  vexation  gnawed  me.  I  overwhelmed  my- 
self with  reproaches.  How  could  I  have  failed 
to  understand  the  cause  which  had  made  Asya 
change  the  place  of  our  tryst,  how  could  I  have 
failed  to  appreciate  what  it  had  cost  her  to  go  to 
that  old  woman,  why  had  I  not  held  her  back? 
Alone  with  her,  in  that  dim,  barely-lighted  room, 
I  had  found  the  strength,  I  had  had  the  heart — 
to  repulse  her,  even  to  upbraid  her.  .  .  .  And  now 
her  image  haunted  me,  I  entreated  its  forgive- 
ness ;  the  memory  of  that  pale  face,  of  those  moist 
and  timid  eyes,  of  the  uncurled  hair  on  the  bowed 
neck,  the  light  touch  of  her  head  on  my  breast 
burned  me.  "  Yours  "  ....  I  heard  her  whis- 
per. "  I  have  acted  according  to  my  conscience," 
I  assured  myself.  .  .  .  Untrue!  Had  I  really 
desired  such  a  solution?     Was  I  in  a  condition 

310 


ASYA 

to  part  from  her?  Could  I  do  without  her? 
"  ^ladman!  madman!  "  I  repeated  viciously.  .  .  . 
In  the  meantime  night  had  descended.  With 
huge  strides  I  wended  my  way  to  the  house  where 
Asva  lived. 


XVIII 

Gagix  came  out  to  meet  me. 

"Have  you  seen  nw  sister?" — he  shouted  to 
me  from  afar. 

"Is  n't  she  at  home?  "—I  asked. 

"  Xo." 

"  She  has  not  returned?  " 

"  Xo.  ...  I  am  to  blame,"— went  on  Gagin: 
—  "I  could  not  hold  out:  contrary  to  our  compact 
I  went  to  the  chapel;  she  was  not  there:  so  she 
did  not  come?  " 

"  She  was  not  at  the  chapel." 

"  And  you  have  not  seen  her?  " 

I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  I  had  seen  her. 

"Where?" 

"At  Frau  Luise's.  — I  parted  from  her  an 
hour  ago,"  — I  added.  —  "  I  was  convinced  that  she 
had  returned  home." 

"  I^et  us  wait."  — said  Gagin. 

We  entered  the  house  and  sat  down  side  by 
side.  We  maintained  silence.  We  both  felt  ex- 
tremely embarrassed.     \\'e  l<ej)t  incessantly  ex- 

.3n 


ASYA 

cliaii<i^ing  glances,  gazing  at  the  door,  listening. 
At  last  Giigin  rose. 

"  This  is  outrageous!  "—he  exclaimed:—"  My 
heart  will  not  keep  still.  She  is  torturing  me,  by 
Heaven.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  and  seek  her." 

We  went  out.  It  was  completely  dark  already 
out  of  doors. 

"  What  did  you  and  she  talk  about?  "— Gagin 
asked  me,  pulling  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes. 

"  I  only  saw  her  for  five  minutes  altogether," 
—  I  replied:  —  "  I  talked  to  her  in  the  way  we  had 
agreed  upon." 

"  Do  3^ou  know  what?  "—he  returned:—"  We 
had  better  separate;  we  may  hit  upon  her  the 
more  promptly  in  that  way.— In  any  case,  come 
hither  an  hour  hence." 


XIX 

I  DESCENDED  briskly  from  the  vineyard,  and 
rushed  to  the  town.  Swiftly  did  I  make  the 
round  of  the  streets,  looking  everywhere,  even 
into  Frau  Luise's  windows ;  returned  to  the  Rhine 
and  ran  alone  the  shore.  .  .  .  From  time  to  time 
I  met  feminine  forms,  but  Asya  w^as  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  Irritation  w^as  already  beginning  to  tor- 
ment me.  A  secret  alarm  tortured  me,  and  it  was 
not  alarm  only  that  I  felt.  .  .  .  No,  I  felt  re- 
pentance, the  most  burning  compassion,  love— 

312 


ASYA 

yes!  the  tenderest  love.  I  wrung  my  hands,  I 
called  on  Asya  athwart  the  gathering  mists  of 
night,  at  first  in  a  low  tone,  then  ever  more  and 
more  loudly;  I  repeated  a  hundred  times  that 
I  loved  her,  that  I  swore  never  to  part  from  her ; 
I  would  have  given  everything  in  the  world  to 
hold  her  cold  hand  once  more,  to  hear  once 
more  her  gentle  voice,  to  behold  her  once  more  be- 
fore me.  . .  .  She  had  been  so  near,  she  had  come  to 
me  with  entire  resolution,  in  full  innocence  of 
heart  and  feelings,  she  had  brought  to  me  her 
unsullied  youth  ....  and  I  had  not  pressed 
her  to  my  breast,  I  had  dejDrived  myself  of  the 
bliss  of  seeing  how  her  lovel}^  face  would  have 
blossomed  forth  with  the  joy  and  tranquillity  of 
rapture.  .  .  .  That  thought  nearly  drove  me 
mad. 

"  Where  can  she  have  gone,  what  has  she  done 
with  herself?  "  —  I  exclaimed  in  the  grief  of  im- 
potent despair.  .  .  .  Something  white  suddenly 
gleamed  on  the  very  brink  of  the  river.  —  I  knew 
that  spot;  there,  over  the  grave  of  a  man  who 
had  been  drowned  seventy  years  before,  stood  a 
stone  cross,  with  an  ancient  inscription,  half 
buried  in  the  ground.  —  INIy  heart  died  within  me. 
.  .  .  .  I  ran  to  the  cross:  the  white  figure  dis- 
ai)peared.  I  shouted:  "Asya!"  My  wild  voice 
frightened  me — but  no  one  answered.  .  .  . 

I  decided  to  go  and  inquire  whether  Gagin  had 
found  her. 

313 


ASYA 


Clambering  alertly  u])  the  path  of  the  vineyard, 
I  descried  a  light  in  Asya's  room.  .  .  .  This  re- 
assured me  somewhat. 

I  ap23roached  the  liouse;  the  lower  door  was 
locked.  I  knocked.  An  unlighted  window  in 
the  lower  story  was  cautiously  oj^ened,  and  Ga- 
gin's  head  made  its  appearance. 

"  Have  you  found  her?  " — I  asked  him. 

"  She  has  returned," — he  replied  to  me  in  a 
whisper:  —  "she  is  in  her  room,  and  is  undress- 
ing.   All  is  as  it  should  be." 

"  God  be  thanked!  "  —  I  exclaimed  with  an  in- 
expressible outburst  of  joy:  —  "  God  be  thanked! 
everything  is  splendid  now.  But  you  know  we 
must  confer  together  further." 

"  Some  other  time,"— he  replied,  softly  draw- 
ing the  casement  toward  him: — "some  other 
time,  but  now  good-bye." 

"Until  to-morrow,"  I  said:— "  to-morrow 
everything  will  be  settled." 

"  Good-bye,"— repeated  Gagin.  The  window 
closed. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  knocking  at  the  window. 
I  wanted  to  tell  Gagin  then  and  there  that  I  asked 
for  his  sister's  hand.  But  such  a  wooing  at  such 
a  time.  .  .  .  "Yes,  to-morrow,"- 1  said  to  my- 
self:—"  to-morrow  I  shall  be  happy.  .  .  ." 

314, 


ASYA 

To-morrow  I  shall  be  happy!  There  is  no  to- 
morrow for  happiness;  neither  has  it  any  yes- 
terday, and  it  recks  not  of  the  future;  it  has  the 
present,  and  not  even  a  day  at  that— but  a 
moment. 

I  do  not  remember  how  I  got  to  Z.  iNIy  feet 
did  not  bear  me  thither,  neither  did  a  boat  con- 
vey me;  I  was  lifted  aloft  on  some  sort  of  broad, 
mighty  pinions.  I  passed  the  bush  where  a 
nightingale  was  singing,  I  halted  and  listened  for 
a  long  time ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  chanting 
my  love  and  my  bliss. 


XXI 

Whex,  on  the  following  morning,  I  began  to 
draw  near  to  the  familiar  little  house,  I  was  struck 
by  one  circumstance:  all  its  windows  stood  wide 
open,  and  the  door  also  was  open;  some  papers 
or  other  were  trailing  about  in  front  of  the  thresh- 
old; the  servant-maid  with  a  broom  made  her 
appearance  beyond  the  door. 

I  went  up  to  her.  .  .  . 

"They  have  gone  away!"  — she  blurted  out, 
before  T  could  manage  to  ask  her  whether  the 
Gagins  were  at  home. 

"  Gone  away?  "...  I  repeated "  What  do 

you  mean  by  '  gone  away? '     Whither?  " 

"  They  went  away  this  morning,  at  six  o'clock, 

315 


ASYxV 

and  (lid  not  say  where.    Wait,  j^ou  are  Mr.  N.,  I 
think  r' 

"  I  am  Mr.  N." 

"  The  hmdhidy  has  a  letter  for  you."  — The 
maid  went  up-stairs  and  returned  with  the  letter. 
— "  Here  it  is,  if  you  please." 

"  But  it  cannot  be.  .  .  .  AVhat  does  it  mean?  " 
—  I  was  beginning.  The  maid  stared  dully  at  me 
and  began  to  sweep. 

I  unfolded  the  letter.  It  was  from  Gagin; 
there  was  not  a  line  from  Asya.  He  began  by  beg- 
ging me  not  to  be  angry  with  him  for  his  sud- 
den departure;  he  was  convinced  that,  on  mature 
consideration,  I  would  approve  of  his  decision. 
He  could  discern  no  other  issue  from  the  situa- 
tion, which  might  become  difficult  and  dangerous. 
— "  Last  night,"— he  wrote,  —  "  while  we  were 
both  waiting  in  silence  for  Asya,  I  became  defini- 
tively convinced  of  the  necessity  of  a  separation. 
There  are  prejudices  which  I  respect;  I  under- 
stand that  you  cannot  marry  Asya.  She  has  told 
me  all ;  for  the  sake  of  her  peace  of  mind,  I  must 
yield  to  her  repeated,  urgent  entreaties."  — At  the 
end  of  the  letter  he  expressed  his  regret  that  our 
acquaintance  had  come  to  so  speedy  an  end, 
wished  me  happiness,  pressed  my  hand  in  friendly 
wise,  and  implored  me  not  to  try  to  hunt  them 

up. 

"What  prejudices?"- 1  cried,  as  though  he 
could  hear  me:— "What  nonsense!     Who  gave 

316 


ASYA 

him  a  right  to  steal  her  from  me  ?"....! 
clutched  m}'  head. 

The  maid-servant  began  to  call  loudly  for  the 
landlady ;  her  fright  made  me  recover  my  senses. 
One  thought  kindled  in  me: — to  find  them,  to  find 
them,  at  any  cost.  To  accept  this  blow,  to  recon- 
cile myself  to  this  conclusion  of  the  matter  was 
impossible.  I  learned  from  the  landlady  that 
they  had  gone  aboard  a  steamer  at  six  o'clock,  and 
sailed  down  the  Rhine.  I  betook  myself  to  the 
office ;  there  I  was  informed  that  they  had  bought 
tickets  for  Cologne.  I  went  home  with  the  in- 
tention of  immediately  packing  up  and  following 
them.  I  was  obliged  to  pass  Frau  Luise's  house. 
....  Suddenly  I  heard  some  one  calling  me.  I 
raised  my  head,  and  beheld  in  the  window  of  the 
room  where  I  had  met  Asya  on  the  day  before, 
the  burgomaster's  widow.  She  was  smiling  with 
her  repulsive  smile,  and  calling  to  me.  I  turned 
away,  and  was  about  to  pass  on ;  but  she  screamed 
after  me  that  she  had  something  for  me.  These 
words  brought  me  to  a  standstill,  and  I  entered 
her  house.  How  shall  I  express  my  feelings, 
when  I  beheld  that  little  room  once  more.  .  .  . 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  —  began  the  old  woman, 
pointing  out  to  me  a  tiny  note: — "  I  ought  to 
have  given  you  tliis  only  in  case  you  came  to  me 
of  your  own  accord ;  but  you  are  such  a  very  fine 
young  man.     Take  it." 

I  took  the  note. 

317 


ASYA 

On  the  tiny  scrap  of  paper  stood  the  following 
words,  hastily  scrawled  in  pencil: 

*' Farewell,  we  shall  see  each  other  no  more,  ""Tis  not 
out  of  pride  that  I  am  going  away, — no;  I  cannot  do 
otherwise.  Yesterday,  when  I  wept  before  you,  if  you 
had  said  to  me  but  one  word,  only  one  word — I  would 
have  remained.  You  did  not  say  it.  Evidently,  it  is 
better  so.  .  .   .  Farewell  forever !  ''  * 

One  word.  .  .  .  Oh,  madman  that  I  am !  That 
word.  ...  I  had  repeated  it  with  tears  in  my 
eyes  the  night  before,  I  had  scattered  it  on  the 
wind,  I  had  reiterated  it  amid  the  empty  fields 
....  but  I  had  not  said  it  to  her,  I  had  not 
told  her  that  I  loved  her.  .  .  .  But  I  had  not 
been  able  to  utter  that  word  then.  When  I  met 
her  in  that  fateful  chamber  there  was  within  me, 
as  yet,  no  clear  consciousness  of  my  love;  it  had 
not  even  awakened  while  I  was  sitting  with  her 
brother  in  irrational  and  painful  silence.  ...  It 
had  flamed  up  with  irresistible  force  only  some 
moments  later  when,  affrighted  by  the  possibility 
of  unhappiness,  I  had  begun  to  seek  her  and 
and  call  to  her  ....  but  then  it  was  too  late. 
"But  this  is  impossible!"  I  shall  be  told.  I 
know  not  whether  it  be  possible,— I  do  know  that 
it  is  true.  Asya  would  not  have  gone  away  had 
there  been  even  a  shade  of  coquetry  in  her,  and 
if  her  position  had  not  been  a  false  one.    She  was 

318 


ASYA 

not  able  to  endure  what  any  other  woman  would 
have  borne ;  I  had  not  understood  that.  My  evil 
genius  had  stopped  the  avowal  on  my  hps  dur- 
ing my  last  meeting  with  Gagin  in  front  of  the 
darkened  window,  and  the  last  thread  at  which  I 
could  still  clutch  had  slipped  out  of  my  hands. 

That  same  day  I  returned,  with  my  trunk 
packed,  to  L.,  and  embarked  for  Cologne.  I  re- 
member that  the  steamer  had  not  yet  left  the 
wharf,  and  I  was  mentally  bidding  farewell  to 
those  streets,  to  all  those  places  which  I  was  des- 
tined to  behold  no  more,— when  I  caught  sight 
of  Hanchen.  She  was  sitting  by  the  shore,  but 
not  sad;  a  j^oung  and  handsome  man  was  stand- 
ing by  her  side,  laughing  and  narrating  some- 
thing to  her ;  while,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine, 
my  little  Madonna  was  still  gazing  out  as  sadly 
as  ever  from  the  dark  greenery  of  the  ash-tree. 

XXII 

In  Cologne  I  came  upon  traces  of  the  Gagins: 
I  learned  that  they  had  gone  to  London,  and  I  set 
out  in  pursuit  of  them ;  but  in  London  all  my  re- 
searches proved  vain.  For  a  long  time  I  would 
not  submit,  for  a  long  time  I  persisted ;  but  I  was 
finally  compelled  to  renounce  all  hopes  of  over- 
taking them. 

And    I    never   beheld    them  — I    never   beheld 
Asya  again.     Obscure  rumours  reached  me  con- 

310 


ASYA 

cerning  him,  but  she  had  vanished  from  me  for- 
ever. I  do  not  even  know  whether  she  is  ahve. 
One  day,  several  years  afterward,  I  caught  a 
ghmpse,  abroad,  in  a  railway  carriage,  of  a  wo- 
man whose  face  vividly  reminded  me  of  the  never- 
to-be-forgotten  features  ....  but  I  was,  in  all 
probability,  deceived  by  an  accidental  resem- 
blance. Asya  has  remained  in  my  memory  the 
same  little  girl  as  I  knew  her  at  the  best  period  of 
mv  life,  as  I  saw  her  for  the  last  time,  bowed 
over  the  back  of  a  low,  wooden  chair. 

I  am  bound  to  confess,  however,  that  I  did  not 
grieve  too  long  over  her :  I  even  thought  that  Fate 
had  ordained  matters  rightly  in  not  uniting  me  to 
Asya;  I  comforted  myself  with  the  thought  that 
I  probably  should  not  have  been  happy  with  such 
a  woman.  I  was  young  then  and  the  future, 
—that  brief,  swift  future,— seemed  to  be  limitless. 
May  not  that  which  has  been  repeat  itself,  I 
thought,  and  in  still  better,  still  more  beautiful 
form?  ...  I  have  known  other  women,— but 
the  feeling  awakened  in  me  by  Asya,  that  glow- 
ing, tender,  profound  emotion,  has  not  been  re- 
peated. No !  No  eyes  have  taken  the  place  with 
me  of  those  eyes  which  once  were  fixed  upon  me 
with  love,  and  to  no  heart  which  has  reclined  on 
my  breast  has  my  own  heart  responded  with 
such  sweet  and  joyous  swooning!  Condemned 
to  the  solitude  of  an  old  bachelor  without  family, 
I  am  living  out  the  wearisome  years;  but  I  pre- 

320 


ASYA 

serve  like  sacred  treasures  her  tiny  notes  and  the 
withered  spray  of  geranium,  that  same  spray 
which  she  once  tossed  to  me  from  the  window. 
It  still  emits  a  faint  fragrance,  but  the  hand 
which  gave  it  to  me,  that  hand  which  I  was  fated 
to  press  but  once  to  my  lips,  may  have  long  been 
mouldering  in  the  grave.  .  .  .  And  I  myself 
....  what  has  become  of  me?  What  is  left 
in  me  of  those  blissful  and  troubled  days,  of  those 
winged  hopes  and  aspirations?  Such  a  faint  ex- 
halation of  an  insignificant  plant  outlives  all  the 
joys  and  woes  of  a  man— outlives  even  the  man 
himself. 


n/7-i 


IIMIvrusiXV   OF   rAIIFORlMIA    I  IRKARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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